Their Law
by j-mercuryuk
Summary: In the slums it wasn't the police who had power, it was the gangs who ran the city and this was their law. However, life for one gang is about to get a lot more complicated.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Wow, I actually typed this up. I started this over a year ago, despite my efforts not to (this was called 'the fic that does not exist' for a very long time), and finally decided to type this up and give it a go a week or so ago.

Just a couple of things before we start. Firstly, this is my attempt to do something grittier than my usual stuff, so if you like my lighter and fluffier stuff, this might not be for you. While Squall and his gang are more organised than the average group, they are still a street gang. This is not a fic about the organised and structured lives of gangsters/mafia, this is about the more chaotic lives of street gangs. Which means the characters will be involved and doing some rather unpleasant things (though the fic is very much still in the WIP stage). Well, that's the plan anyway. In hope it doesn't just turn into a laughable Disney-fied version. So, the rating is to be on the safe side.

Secondly, I'm really shit at accents and such. I've tried to give the right feel to the gangs without it descending into incomprehensible grammar and slang. So if a gang member says something that isn't grammatically correct, it's probably on purpose. I do apologise if they still all sound very middle class though.

* * *

Their Law- Chapter 1

Esthar was once a great country – strong, beautiful and, above all, rich. Then the war came. It was between the three most powerful nations in the world, Esthar, Galbadia and Centra, each determined to destroy the other. It lasted for twenty-five years and there was no winner, but not in the 'war has no winners' sense. Twenty-five years of warfare and natural disasters had crippled two countries and destroyed the third. The remaining enemies called a truce and retreated to lick their wounds. Eighty-seven years later and Esthar was still paying.

The government was as ruined as its country. Unable to deal with its people, the 'old money' rose up and took power. They were families that still had vast wealth after the war, many profiting from it. Families like the Zabacs, the Kramers and the Liores. They formed the council and set about rebuilding the city, restoring it to its former glory. They started to return democracy to the people and investing time and money into science and technology. The inner city rose from the ashes of the past, stronger and more wondrous than before, while the outer city was left to rot and decay into slums.

The slums had no wealth and, when ignored by the council, started to crumble. In time, the gangs started appear. The neighbourhood watches, the organised crime groups and the common street gangs emerged, took control, claiming their territory and defending it to the death, but from the chaos came a strange stability and the city stopped crumbling. The mafia, and the more successful neighbourhood watches, returned some wealth to their territory and from this the suburbs were born. The slums couldn't repair their city, but they could hold off its demise, like a paused video before the tragedy. They could live, a life trapped in poverty, but it was living.

The gangs had power while the police had little, corrupt and scared of the gangs. They wanted little to do with gang warfare and only few had the courage to pursue true justice. In the slums it wasn't the police who had power, it was the gangs who ran the city and this was their law.

(&)

In the southern slums lay a night club called The Fire Cavern. A tacky name for a tacky club, but more importantly it was a gang club. An establishment adopted by a gang as 'theirs', which was a mutually beneficial arrangement for both sides: the gang had a place to use as their own, while the owner got increased business from the elevated position, and more business was always welcome. This club was used by the Sewer Rats, and in Squall's opinion, the name couldn't suit them better.

The young man, not yet twenty, leaned against the bar. The drink in his hands was there more to keep them occupied than a desire to drink the intoxicating liquid, not when he needed a clear head. The music burst loudly from the speakers, generic trash with too much beat and little else. His eyes flickered round the room and caught sight of his friend in the crowd, talking (well, shouting) to some pretty girl. Squall's eyes returned to his drink and he took a small sip, wondering what was taking Quistis so long.

"You're gorgeous."

Squall looked up at the voice. A girl who looked too young to be in a club stood before him, her eyes sparkling in a manner that indicated that she'd had more than a few drinks. She smiled broadly and held out her hand in a demanding manner.

"Dance with me."

She failed to spark the slightest bit of interest in him. He looked back down at his drink.

"I don't dance."

"You don' dance?" Amusement joined the slight slur in her voice now. "Who go ta a club but don' dance?"

She leaned forward to try and peer at him more clearly, but she staggered drunkenly instead. To her credit, she recovered her balance quickly enough and placed her hands on her hips instead. It was supposed to be smooth gesture, as if that had always been her intent, and he supposed she thought it looked authoritative, but instead it came off as extremely childish. She was definitely under age. He didn't dignify her with an answer, but that didn't stop her talking.

"Ya know, a girl migh' think that you don' like her. So, wanna dance?"

Squall paused, feeling his phone vibrate in his pocket. He didn't bother looking up at her as he replied.

"No."

She huffed, her face turning into an ugly scowl. She tossed her vivid red hair over her shoulder and marched – 'stumbled' was probably a more accurate term – back into the heaving mass of dancers. He didn't spare her a glance as he reached for his phone. Seeing Quistis' name light up on the screen, he opened the message.

_Are you ready? _

A second later the screen flashed again, this time Irvine's name appeared.

_Steady. _

He slid the phone shut and slipped it back into his pocket. Setting his glass down on the bar, he shrugged out of the long coat he had 'borrowed' for the evening. As it fell to the ground with a soft thud, he reached for one of the guns resting by his thigh. He raised it up and fired into the ceiling once.

_Go. _

As soon as the gunshot cut through the air, panicked screams mixed with the music as dancers scrambled towards the exit, desperate to be out of the crossfire as quickly as they could. They had a minute or two to escape before the conflict kicked off and they were caught in the middle. It wasn't long, but then that was the risk you took in coming to a gang club – that gang warfare would decide to make its way home.

In that minute he'd reached for a second gun against his leg, a cheap and standard weapon he'd stolen. They were nowhere near the quality of his own customised guns that he carried on him, the twin machine pistols resting by his hips and the pair of guns secured in the shoulder holsters, but they would do the job and could be thrown away in the heat of the moment.

His eyes scanned the dance floor for his first victim, only to find several teens sprinting over. The closest came at him, an ugly bastard if he ever laid eyes on one. Behind him a couple, a male and a female, took aim with their guns. Squall dropped and kicked a stool into the approaching man. The repulsive opponent flew over the seat and crashed to the ground. One well placed bullet to the head later and he was dead. No sooner had the bullet left his gun then Squall was on the move again. He took shelter behind a pillar, bullets chasing him all the while.

He looked up at the mirrored wall in front of him, a rather pathetic attempt to make the place look 'classy'. It was now smashed and cracked, but through what remained he could see the man drop, and then the woman. Good old Irvine. He smiled grimly, the 'music' still blaring out of the speakers. How long would it take for Quistis to cut that that damn crap?

He didn't have long to dwell on his thoughts. Behind the bar a door was jerked open, while there was movement on the other side of the club. He let off a shot in that direction and someone fell to the ground. He didn't bother checking to see if it was a gang member or not, he was busying making his way to the door that had opened. He trusted Irvine to take care of anyone else, to cover his back.

The first man dashed through the gap between the bar and the wall, and Squall levelled the right gun at the man's face and let off a shot between the eyes. As the man hit the floor another gang member leapt over his fallen comrade, hair dyed bright red, with his hands out to grab his opponent. Too close to use his gun, Squall quickly stepped to the side and was forced to take another step back when a girl came at him with a knife. As she lunged again, he ducked and rammed his shoulder into her stomach, winding her. He shrugged her off as he stood and another of his bullets found a deadly target. He turned back to the red haired man to see him standing, flanked by two others, in front of the bar. He was lucky, only two of them had a gun while other had what could only be called a butcher's knife. He was young, probably still had to earn his stripes and become a full member of the gang.

For a moment they were still. Squall could feel the music's beat through his body as if it pumped his heart and drove the adrenaline round his body. He was calm, his mind clear, with the familiar mix of excitement and nerves lining his gut. Then the moment was gone and he acted.

Aiming both guns he fired, one found its victim, but not its mark. The victim, a young boy with dark hair, clutched his arm where the bullet had entered, dropping his knife. The redhead gun wielder ducked away from his intended killer, firing his own gun clumsily. Idiot, having a gun was hardly any better than not having one if you couldn't use it properly. The bullets were easy for Squall to dodge and the music dulled slightly as one bullet found its way into a speaker. The second Sewer Rat with a gun, a dark skinned girl, ducked out of the way.

There was no time to feel relief though as the red gun wielder came at him. Squall fired his left gun at the man again, but for the all the other man's clumsy firing he was damn quick. He waited for his opponent to come straight at him and then he lifted his right gun to level it at the red head. The Sewer Rat halted, wide eyed as he stared down the barrel of Squall's gun. The brunet pulled the trigger. Nothing. Squall pulled the trigger again and still nothing. He growled in annoyance; the cheap piece of crap just _had_ to jam on him now. The other man's face split into a grin as he realised what was happening, but it didn't last long. Squall swung the useless weapon at his opponent's head, hitting him hard on the temple. The victim fell heavily and Squall didn't have time to spare a bullet for him. The other two members of the small group had disappeared from his sight and he didn't know where to.

There was a sudden crunching of glass and a gun was fired. Squall stepped back, feeling the air stir as the bullet just missed him, but he did catch sight of his two missing opponents. The young boy searched his fallen comrade's bodies for a gun to use, his shot arm dangling by his side. His friend fired again, causing Squall to duck.

The hand that held Squall's jammed gun shot up to the injured boy, but he let go of the gun and it flew across the room to its target. He fired the final bullet in his other gun, hitting the woman at last and he dropped the empty weapon. His hands went to the twin machine pistols at his waist, drawing them before the empty gun hit the ground. Turning, he saw the boy nearly upon him. Apparently the gun he'd thrown had missed its target. He swung his leg up into a roundhouse kick, catching the kid heavily on the side of his head. Twisting his right arm up, he let off a very shot burst of bullets into his opponent's abdomen.

The boy fell to the floor, clutching his belly, whimpering as his life slipped away with his blood. As the red pooled on the ground Squall held down the trigger for a second again, this time in the kid's head. It was better just to put the kid out of his misery.

Suddenly the music finally died, better late than never he guessed. He shifted the guns, the 'Twin Punishment' in his hands and looked round for another attacker, but the room was vacant of any more live 'rats'. Light filled the room, giving him a clear view for the first time that night. To his right someone gave a low whistle. Looking round he saw Zell, hands in pockets, looking around them.

"We sure made a mess, didn't we?"

He wasn't lying, though from the looks of this Zell hadn't been completely innocent of this crime. He must have taken care of the guys that Irvine had missed. Speaking of the gunslinger …

Irvine looked down at them, leaning against the railing of the mezzanine level. The grin was casual, as if he hadn't noticed he was in the middle of a destroyed, blood spattered, corpse scattered club. He waved his gun in a mock salute.

"All clear in here," he called down. "What now?"

Quistis appeared on the walkway above and behind Squall, who turned just enough to look up at her.

"I have it," she held up a card for them to see, a pistol in the other hand. "The door's in the office."

"There more Rats in there?" he asked, making his way over to the stairs.

"Of course."

"Zell, watch out down here."

"Gotcha."

"What about the guns you chucked?" Irvine asked, eyeing the abandoned firearms from across the room.

"Leave them," Squall grunted, passing him as he made his way to Quistis' side.

Irvine sighed before following his leader. "Hate to see good hardware wasted."

"They were crap." Squall gave in the way of a consolation.

"That's why you strip 'em down and fix 'em up," the older man said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. Seeing the look on Squall's face, he decided not to press the matter.

The dull clunk of footsteps echoed round the hall as they walked to the other side of the room, where Quistis waited by a couple of doors. As they drew close she swiped the card and punched in a code. The closet door bleeped, followed by the definite click of a lock opening. Squall swung the door open, guns at the ready, but the room was empty. Stepping inside his eyes swept it, his guns following.

"Empty?" It was Quistis, but she didn't wait for a reply before stepping over the threshold. "Looks like the Big Rat isn't home."

"Or he's 'round back."

"Talking about Rats, how'd they get all this tech?" asked Irvine, stepping into the office. Not that it looked like it had ever been used for that purpose. There was a desk, but not a paper was in sight. "Bit much for a shitty gang." He jerked a thumb at a stained sofa in the corner, as if this proved his point. "Six months ago this place barely had a speaker, and now all this."

"A reward for hiding their client and his prize," Squall replied.

"Ya guy tell you that?" Squall nodded. "You'd think they'd do something about this room if they had so much money."

"They have a room with a bed in it through here," Quistis replied, swiping her card and typing in a code again.

Irvine tipped his hat back, an eyebrow raised. "How'd you know that?"

There was another beep and click. She held up the card as if that explained everything. Catching on, Irvine chuckled. "What happened to the owner?"

"He died a very disappointed man before he could make it to the bed." She swung the door open onto an empty corridor, with three doors along it leading into other rooms. "It's the one on the end, on the right."

The trio made their way down the corridor, glancing into the rooms they passed. One was filled with bottles of alcohol and various other supplies; a man was slumped against one wall in a drunken slumber. The other room contained a tacky bedroom; the Rats really had awful taste. It didn't look particularly clean, either. The third room was locked, but not for long as Quistis' trusty stolen card appeared again to work its magic.

The room's two occupants turned around with startled expressions as Squall kicked the door open. He held down the triggers of his guns in short bursts, easily disposing of them. He stepped forward, ready to fire again, but his two friends passed him by and their guns remained silent. He stepped towards the closest corpse, stowing away his guns. He looked down at the face and his eyes widened, biting back a tirade of curses. Son of a bitch. He had not been told about this.

"Squall."

He ignored Irvine, his mind working quickly to try and find a way out of this hellish mess.

"Squall, mate, you'll wanna see this."

Squall looked up irritably, but his ire disappeared as he saw what had caught his friend's attention. Against the far wall was the girl whom they were looking for, but she was far from what they were expecting.

She was slumped against a wall, a lifeless doll, her hands spread apart and above her head. Like she was a princess from a fairytale, held captive in a dungeon, but there was one major difference: it wasn't chains that held her in place, but wires. The area was a tangle of multicoloured wires, trailing from the computers around her and piercing through her skin at various points. At some of these entry ports a small circle of metal could be seen. She was naked apart from a pair of briefs, a rather bizarre consideration in Squall's opinion. That and the way her hair covered her breasts were the only things that protected her dignity. Her head was titled to the side, her expression blank, beyond the looks of the vapid girls that he'd known. It was as if she had been … switched off. The way her eyes were half closed and dead seemed to reinforce this. She didn't stir as he came to stand by Irvine's side.

This was not going as planned.

Curious to see what all the fuss was about Quistis abandoned her post by the door to join them. A soft gasp left her lips.

"An android. I didn't know they could be so realistic."

It was a _small_ detail that their informant had left out.

"Irvine, there's a room back there that's full of alcohol. Bring some strong spirits, and lots of it. I want to burn this room down when we leave."

"Gotcha." And he was gone.

Squall turned to Quistis standing behind him. "How do we unplug her?"

She shook her head. "This is way beyond me. I can deal with computers, but androids are completely different."

"You know better than any of us. Can we just take the wires out?"

"I don't think so, we might hurt … er, damage her."

"Then how do we get her out?"

"I'm sorry Squall, I don't know. This is nothing like computers."

Squall fought away the frustration rising inside him. He doubted they had much time, and now all he wanted was to get out of here as quickly as possible. He reached out to touch the android girl's face. He wasn't sure why, maybe in the hope that it would lead to some divine inspiration. His gloved hand brushed her skin –

– and her head shot up. Squall snatched his hand back at the sudden movement as though it had been burned. The android looked straight ahead, her gaze remaining disturbingly blank, and when she spoke her voice equally empty – no, that wasn't quite right. There was something else, a mechanical quality, both in the sound of her voice and the manner in which she spoke.

"Project Seven Eighty-Six: Cy dash RH dash zero three zero three six eight. Do you wish to continue?"

Squall looked to Quistis who was trying not to look lost.

"Maybe," she started, "We can ask her how to get the wires out."

The Android's face turned towards her. "You wish to disconnect?"

Quistis paused briefly. "Yeah."

"Affirmative. Do you wish to pacify the cyborg interface-persona?"

This time the blonde looked openly blank. "I think she's asking if we want to shut her down."

"Negative. Cy dash RH dash zero three zero three six eight does not shut down."

There was the sound of footfalls and Squall looked back, taking one of the weapons in his shoulder harness, rather than one of the machine pistols. Zell burst into the room.

"Squall – whoa!" He caught sight of the strange girl. "Whoa! Naked girl. Naked girl with wires and … whoa."

"Zell, what do you what?" Squall snapped.

The boy's eyes didn't leave the girl as he spoke. "Pigs'll be here soon; can hear 'em coming. What's goin' on?"

Shit. This was enough trouble as it was, he didn't fancy making things more difficult by including the police. This was too big for them to weasel out of if they were caught red handed; even the police knew when something was too good to be bribed and twisted out of. Even if they did get out of it, it was likely the military would become involved, and then they were screwed. This could become very awkward, very quickly.

"Where's Irvine?"

"Here." The wannabe cowboy appeared in the doorway.

Squall took out the bullet clip of his gun removing two bullets before replacing the rest. He moved and crouched down by the two bodies, placing a bullet in each mouth. Hopefully when the fire reached their mouths the bullets would go off and destroy the teeth, making it impossible to easily identify them. Well, he hoped it would work, anyway; he'd never needed to test out the theory. Normally it was simple, shoot and run. Then if the police did come knocking, they played smugly dumb.

Quistis ignored them as she continued to try and make sense of the girl. "I don't understand."

"Do you wish for the ghost to regain control?"

"Oh, yeah."

Squall stepped away from the corpses and turned to see the wires snap back into place as they were released from their ports. Fascinated he stepped to Quistis' side. The girl blinked several times, rolling her head forwards. Then her eyes slid shut and plunged forward, straight into Squall's arms.

"Irvine," he called back. "I need your coat."

"Wha …?"

"I need your coat."

"Why mine?"

"You have a long coat, she has no clothes," he bit back the patronising tone that threatened to crept into his voice.

"Ain't a problem with that."

"Just give me the fucking coat," Squall spat, his patience running thin.

"I like this coat," Irvine grumbled, as he shrugged out of his duster and handed it to his friend.

Squall took the garment and threw it around the girl, swamping the smaller frame. He pulled it closed as he continued talking to Irvine.

"Did you find something to burn them with?"

"How 'bout this?"

Squall glanced back to see a grinning Irvine holding up a can of …

"Petrol?"

"Ain't the strangest thing I found."

After everything that had happened tonight, he couldn't find it in himself to be surprised. He stood, picking up the girl.

"Quistis and Zell, can you deal with that and get out?"

"'Course boss," Zell called cheerily. "No problem."

"See you back at the warehouse then. Irvine, call Selphie and tell her to meet us round back."

Squall quickly left the room carrying the girl, leaving Zell and Quistis to finish their job while Irvine followed him, flicking the phone open and speed dialing his girlfriend. After they got out of this, he was going to have a very long talk with his 'friend' about leaving out certain important information.

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A/N: Woot. There you go, chapter one. This feels like a new area that I'm branching into, so I would love everyone's feedback, especially on the fight scene. I'm still very much working on writing fights and so I'd love some constructive criticism. Hope I wasn't dull or confusing.


	2. Chapter 2

Okay, first up- I'm very sorry to keep you guys waiting, especially after such a good response from the first chapter, this was supposed to go up about a week ago (more than that now, but that's a long story). Unfortunately, I spend the majority of last week either trudging through snow to post various important documents (and stressing about said documents) or in bed recovering from a rather bad cold (caused, and then made worse, by stress).

Chapter 2

"What we're dealing with here, is a total lack of respect for the law."

Detective Inspector Seifer Almasy stood in the Parliament hall. Immediately before him sat the members of the Cabinet, and either side them sat the minor members of parliament. It was a gathering of the country's most powerful men, and he could barely contain his contempt of them. He was a front line policeman who had risen speedily through the ranks, so _naturally_ there was no one better for the job of convincing these degenerates that there was a serious crime problem in the slums. The thing was, no one gave a shit.

He wasn't a fool. He knew that when his superior asked him, a 'humble' Detective, to speak here that the Cabinet would not be thrilled. The slums were the subject of discussion, after all, and they were a far cry away from the world of these men. The squeaky clean inner city couldn't care less about the poverty and crimes of the outer city, except as a means of boasting their own superiority complex or as a scapegoat for all of life's problems.

Not enough government money to spend? Stop giving cash to those lazy ghetto dwellers. Why should they get an easy ride through life when the rest of the city worked hard for their livelihoods?

Most of these people wanted the slums to vanish, their inhabitants along with them, and they didn't care how. He was sure that Field Marshal Drakeman was chief amongst these thinkers. A man over twice Seifer's age, Drakeman was the Minister of Defence, head of the military and the intelligence services. His greying hair was combed back while his uniform was pristine over his broad-yet-tall frame. He had all the baring of a man with power, and by God did he have it. He was one of, if not the most, powerful man in the Cabinet – and he didn't give a damn about what Seifer was saying. It was rumoured that the Field Marshal's personal desire was to bomb the slums and rebuild them from scratch. Before Seifer had even uttered a word this man had been against him, and it pissed Seifer off.

Even so, as Seifer continued his speech he felt the man's eyes on him. He may not care what the D.I. was saying, but his eyes never left Seifer, examining the man who stood before the Cabinet table. If the bastard spent less time watching him and more time listening, then he would know what Seifer was saying was important.

At least the other ministers had the decency to seem like they were listening. Besides the Minister of Media, who looked like he was one step away from pulling out a yo-yo to entertain himself. Seifer supposed that he was living proof that with enough charm, charisma and, of course, money, you could do anything. He seemed to care little about the matters being discussed before him, as if running the country bored him. He supposed that was one thing that the Minister of Media and Minister of Science and Development had in common. However, Seifer guessed that in the case of the Minister for Science, it was due more to him wanting to dedicate his time to a 'higher cause' rather than these 'insignificant' matters, or some such bullshit. The 'Reclusive Minister' never came to these meetings, so he gathered, preferring to lock himself away in his lab instead. Hell, Seifer didn't even know if the minister _was_ a he. Yet despite all this, s/he was still one of the two most influential members in the cabinet. It was a sharp contrast to his own superior.

Seifer couldn't even look at Minister Wedge, the Minister of Justice, fearing that his disgust at the man would be reflected in his expression. It was Seifer's personal opinion that at some point during the minister's career, his spine had been ripped out, leaving him with the useless lump that sat before them today.

He focused on his speech, talking about how the gangs had power in the slums and the police had little, too little to do anything. It was a situation the police often found themselves in, in all ladders of society in Esthar, and the Parliament Hall and Council Chamber were no different. Here, the Minister of Justice held as little power as the police in the slums. Minister of Justice? A sharp bark of laughter rang round his head. The title was a joke, as hollow as the man himself. Minister Wedge may agree with Seifer and his intent may be good, but he had no power to sway the others and he wouldn't try.

"We need to be the defenders of the Law and Justice, not only in name, but in practice. The police-force need to regain power and respect," Seifer continued, starting the second half of his speech.

Realising that more was coming, Minister Martine's expression stiffened, his exasperation shoddily covered up. He tapped the end of his pen on the table, a beat a second.

"Corruption must be…" tap, tap, tap, "…brought to an end…" tap, tap, tap, "... the gangs need to lose their…" tap, tap, tap. The distracting noise caused Seifer to lose his place and he was forced to start his sentence again.

Minister Martine smirked and sped up his tapping. As Seifer continued, so did the beat of the pen, until the D.I. wanted to grab the instrument and shove it down the man's throat. The minister's assistant looked up at her boss. She was an attractive brunette who probably had a brain to match her looks. It was one of the many perks of Martine's department (Education); he had the first pick of any particularly promising youths. He was alerted to gifted students early, keeping tabs on them and enrolling them in the best schools and universities on scholarships. Afterwards, he employed all of those he'd seduced over to his department. He employed more than his fair share of bright young graduates, most of whom were rumoured to be attractive young women. Of course, not all were employed in his department; after all, strong allies were just as useful as loyal subjects. The Minister of Health was living proof of this.

When Minister Martine started to stop tapping whenever Seifer stopped talking and renew it every time he opened his mouth, the detective thought he would snap. He was saved though. The pen was roughly grabbed from Martine's hand by the Minister of Health, who sat next to him. Martine shot his friend an irritated look that lacked any really bite. Minister Lloyd in turn ignored it, addressing Seifer.

"Please continue, Detective Inspector Almasy."

Seifer nodded his thanks before he continued, now focusing his attention on the Minister for Health in the hopes that he had found a supporter. The man was known to be good natured and friendly, so maybe Seifer was in luck. This minister was different to the others. He hadn't been born into the wealth that the others had, he'd worked his way up from the lower-middle class. While it didn't sound like much, it was an achievement only made by one other person since the Great War. Lloyd had been spurred on to help others by the horrific burn that marred the left side of his face.

However, looking at the man now, Seifer knew his hope was useless. The man didn't understand the point. Yes, Minister Lloyd may have wanted to uphold discipline, but he felt like the slum dwellers wanted to be there, to live in poverty as they did. If the minister could work his way to the top, then why couldn't they work their way out of their own poor circumstances? They must be lazy and laziness must not be rewarded. It brought Seifer straight back to square one.

He continued regardless, but the more he spoke, the more he realised that no one cared. They just wanted him to finish so they could continue with their white-washed lives that covered up their scandals and corruption, and it made his blood boil. He may as well be talking to a class of five year-olds. At least they would be more honest about their boredom.

Maybe he was being a little too harsh. Out of the seven ministers who had bothered to turn up, only one showed any interest in what he was saying, the Minister of Business and Finance. Of course, one out of seven was a pathetic result. Besides, Seifer didn't know anything about the man, except from what he saw before him; a man who, despite being in his forties, didn't have a single grey hair amongst the dark brown. He wasn't ugly, but he'd clearly never been a looker. Oh, and there was the small fact that he owned forty-one percent of all the city's businesses. Some were, strictly speaking, government owned which he had inherited with the job, while others he had bought or started with his own money.

Seifer finished and looked up at the members of the Cabinet, the looks of boredom, polite attentiveness and their total lack of concern. He sensed their mood carried on throughout the minor politicians in Parliament Hall. No one said anything. Seifer grit his teeth. How could they not care? He just told them that they were ignoring the slums, their own people, because of the lack of real power the police had. Were they deaf, stupid or did they simply not care what happened outside of their own little bubble?

"The Police need _help_ to fight crime," Seifer tried again. "We need more power. We need to weed out the corrupt." Once more his comment received no response and he couldn't help his anger boiling over. His face twisted into an ugly scowl and the frustration was clear in his voice. "The slums are falling apart, a breeding ground for open conflict, human trafficking, arms dealing, illegal prostitution, not to mention countless other instances of law flaunting. The slums can't improve without addressing these problems. Don't you care?"

"Thank you, Mr Almasy, for bringing up these issues," Minister Lloyd broke in smoothly. "We will take your words into account."

The minister's dismissal only fuelled his anger, but he caught himself before he started hurling random abuse at the ministers. Hot headed words, while they would make him feel better, would only hurt his position and would likely land him on probation few months for assaulting government officials. Instead he clenched his fists and took a deep breath. He should have just thanked the men for their time and left, but instead he couldn't stop himself from having the last word.

"The problems in the slums are only the surface of a deeper problem. It doesn't begin and end in the outer city, it spills into the suburbs, and the centre of Esthar itself. It's only a matter of time before these deeper problems begin showing themselves in your own backyard." Turning sharply, he marched out of the hall.

Seifer stormed through the hallway, mentally ranting and raving, every now and then muttering a curse. Not two minutes down the corridor Seifer spun around and kicked out at an innocent waste bin. The bastards. The self-absorbed, narrow minded, arrogant, twisted bas –

"Detective Inspector Almasy, can we talk?"

Seifer whipped around to see the last person he'd ever expected to see standing before him. He managed to hide his surprise under a mask of scorn. The other man merely smiled.

"I have a proposition for you."

(&)

Squall had barely left the building when a sleek black car screeched to a stop at the end of the alley way.

"Selphie's getaway service," the driver chirped happily out of her window as they approached. "If I don't get you away, then you'll never need to make another getaway again."

By the time she'd finished her sentence Irvine had already slid across the bonnet and was slipping into the front passenger seat.

"Good timing, Sefie."

Squall let the android girl's legs drop to the ground, freeing his hand to open the back door. As soon as he slipped both himself and his burden inside, the car sped forward.

"Flash car, where'd you get it?" Irvine asked, his tone pleasantly conversational as he twisted around to look out the back window.

"Edge of the slums, it was all lonely by itself so I thought I'd give it some company."

"It's a little noticeable," Squall grunted, as he rearranged the girl in the seat behind Irvine and tired to strap her in. It wasn't the easiest job in the world, not when she kept slumping forward.

"Not down Whore's Alley it ain't. Besides, it's not my plate."

Sirens suddenly started blaring from behind and Irvine cursed.

"Damn pigs. Your time to shine, Sefie."

Squall looked up in time to see Selphie grinning as she slammed down on the accelerator. Irvine reached for his gun and opened his window fully, ready to fire at their pursuer. Beside him, Squall finally heard the 'click' of the safety belt catch. He slid across the back seat to his own side, and drew one of his Twin Punishment handguns. He was just thankful that they were only running from the police. Whilst the Force had better resources than the gangs, they carried little fire power: one simple hand gun, and maybe a taser if they were the paranoid sort. The gangs carried anything from knives to machine guns, and they used them liberally. The police hated wasting their limited ammo with mindless shooting; they preferred to aim to kill or disable.

Selphie made a sharp turn to the left and Squall had to frantically clutch onto the door handle to stop himself from flying into the girl … android … cyborg … whatever he shared the back seat with. She wasn't so lucky. Being unconscious she had no way of stopping herself from forcefully hitting the door; her head hit the window with a _crack_. Ignoring her, Squall turned to look out the rear window.

"They have a friend," he announced.

The police cars behind them sped up, trying to close the gap.

"Hold on," Selphie grinned.

She swerved, overtaking the car in front of them, and made a sharp turn down a road that would take them out of the smaller residential streets. The car they'd overtaken honked its horn loudly, while the first police car over shot the turn.

"We've lost one," Squall informed their driver.

"He'll be back," she said. "He'll go down the next turn and come up at the crossroad."

"Let's see if I can get rid of this one," Irvine said as he pulled himself out of the passenger window. Sitting himself firmly on the frame and holding onto the handle above the window, he let off a shot towards their pursuers, grazing the paintwork. Squall had seen his friend do this a couple of times and every time he had to wonder how the gunman didn't just going flying across the road, especially considering the way Selphie often drove.

His thoughts were brought back to the interior of the car when the girl next to him stirred. His eyes shot to her. _Now_ she chose to wake up? He supposed as long as she didn't freak out it would be fine. However, he really didn't have time to sit around and explain the situation to her to keep her calm.

"Looks like the princess is waking up," Selphie's voice drifted from the front seat.

Squall didn't bother replying. He watched as the girl blinked, her eyes coming into focus as she looked up at him. She met his eyes and he noted the lack of fear in them. No, she wasn't scared, she was just very confused. He supposed that was to be expected, she'd just woken up after … however long she'd been under for. He doubted she understood enough of her situation to be scared. He vaguely registered Irvine giving a whoop; his friend must have hit the police car, but his mind was trying to work out if he should say something to the girl. What did you say to someone in a situation like this? If it was one of his gang he would have shoved a gun their way and told them they had dogs on their tail. He couldn't really do that with her, she might turn on them.

She swallowed. "What – "

Selphie suddenly turned left and the girl was slammed into the door again before she could finish speaking. She gave a small yelp.

"Sorry," Selphie threw back.

There was the sound of a gunshot behind them and Irvine dropped back into his seat.

"Bastards," he said indignantly. "They tried to shoot me!"

Squall tore his eyes away from the girl who was looking around, wide-eyed.

"How dare they return fire," was his dry reply.

"I know, right? I might complain."

"I'm sure they'll love that," he muttered before saying, "I thought you got 'em?"

"Yeah, but their friend joined us again."

Squall frowned, he hadn't noticed that. "When?"

"Passed 'em at the crossroad, we just got ahead of them," Selphie answered for her lover. "Just after princess back there woke up."

"She's awake?" Irvine twisted round in his seat to look at the passenger. "She is." His grin faded. "She looks kinda … confused."

"She's just woken up in a speeding car," Squall pointed out, looking back out the window at their followers.

"So have I."

"But you passed out after drinking too much."

"Yeah, but I still shot the car behind us."

"No, you didn't."

"Sure I did. Right Sefie?"

"It _was_ kinda a dustbin."

"It was ...? Damn, I must've been wasted."

The car pulled onto the largest motorway in the slums: the Ring Road. It also marked the boundary between the rich inner city and the poor outer city. Selphie weaved in and out of the cars while the police followed, sirens blaring out behind them.

"They're still following us." It was obvious; Squall didn't really need to tell them.

"Just a bit longer … here!"

The freeway dividers along the centre of the dual carriageway disappeared. Selphie grinned madly. She turned the wheel sharply, slamming on the breaks and spinning the car around until it skidded into a U-turn. Irvine laughed and he held himself in place while Squall resisted the urge to close his eyes and curse whilst praying they wouldn't be hit. The girl beside him gave a strangled cry that caught in her throat. Groaning she screwed her eyes closed.

The car had barely straightened on the other side of the motorway when their insane wheelwoman hit the accelerator, hurling them forward again. Squall looked around to see how the fuzz handled the turn, but lacking the ease and skill that Selphie possessed, their car skidded across the road only to slam into another vehicle at high speed. There was a deafening crash as the windows smashed and the metal bent out of shape. The force of the blow sent the police car spinning into the end of the barrier. Squall turned round when another car crashed into the back of the second. As he turned towards the front he saw their tag-along was bent over, hands over her head. He could just about glimpse her lips moving, but what she was muttering was beyond him.

In the driver's seat, Selphie whooped and punched the air (as much as she could in the car's small interior) with a fist.

"Just make sure you don't pick up any more," Squall stated.

She looked at him through the rear-view mirror. "Sure thing, Mr Boss Man."

She steered them off the Ring Road and back into the slums. She didn't slow down properly till she was off the main road and confident they weren't being followed.

"You guys 'k back there?"

The strange girl beside Squall straightened, her eyes distant and glossy. She hugged herself, drawing the coat tighter around her body. All things considered, she wasn't dealing with this too badly. Though he suspected at least a small part of it was due to the shock she must be in. She'd woken up trapped in a car that was speeding dangerously through the outer city, with three strangers and only a coat to protect her dignity. It wasn't exactly the most pleasant awakening that she could have asked for.

Squall turned back to Selphie. "Drop us off at Whore's Alley. I'll take her back by foot while you get rid of the car."

"It'll be hard to say goodbye," she sighed. "She's such a sexy beast. Oh well, 'least I can take what I want; my baby needs some new parts."

"Take too long and you'll get caught," Squall cautioned. It was his way of saying 'be careful'.

"Don't worry, I know exactly what I want."

Squall didn't bother replying.

Selphie drove them deeper into the slums, coming to a stop at the end of a lively road. Lively it may have been, but the occupants mostly ignored them, more concerned with their own dealings and interactions. Squall quickly opened his door, telling his charge to get out. However, by the time he stepped round the car and onto the pavement, all he saw was trash. He opened the door and frowned down at her.

"Come on."

She didn't move. Her eyes were still glassy as she looked blankly into thin air. She wasn't really with them anymore, he realised. A sharp, frustrated breath escaped him. It was just one thing after another tonight; he was really starting to wish he hadn't agreed to this. He leaned over and released the catch on her belt. Wrapping an arm around her waist, he started to manoeuvre her out of the car. Then she moved. He felt her fingers clutch the material of his T-shirt, brushing against his shoulder through the material. It startled him, but he continued to ease her out, hoping that she would take the hint. He felt a wave of relief when her legs moved of their own accord, her feet connecting with the pavement. Her slow and clumsy movements implied that she moved unconsciously, her semi-vacant expression supporting his suspicion, but a small light hinted at stirrings of awareness.

Squall pulled her up into a standing position and she slumped, one hand desperately grasping his shirt, the other holding her coat shut, but she remained on her feet.

Turning to his friends inside the car, Squall said, "I'll see you soon," and slammed the door shut.

The car took off and Squall made his way down the street, the woman stumbling beside him. For all the world, they looked just like a guy escorting his very drunk girlfriend home.

* * *

This chapter had another first from me; I've never really written a chase scene before (not a proper one), so I'd love to hear if it worked and what need improvement. Thank you to everyone how reviewed the last chapter, sorry if I didn't reply to your review, but last week I really wasn't feeling up to doing much typing.

Oh, forgot to mention last chapter, but the title of the fic is taken from the 'Prodigy' song by the same name. This chapter also contains one of the few lines from the song.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Just short of an hour's walk from the Fire Cavan, life was a lot calmer. Rows of terraced housing lined the streets while blocks of flats broke the skyline, rising up towards the stars. They were cracked, crumbling and filthy buildings, most of them more suited to the rats the scurried within rather than human life – from the young, surrounded by loved ones, to the elderly, who would often die alone and unnoticed. It wasn't unusual to pass a space where a house had once been, leaving only a pile of rubble in its place. It had never been the richest area, not even before the Great War, but people lived pleasant lives that they were content with.

By the end of the war the majority of the buildings were in such bad shape that they should have been torn down, but the only people available to rebuild them were working hard on the inner city. So they remained standing, most without owners, at least officially. With so many left homeless after the war (not to mention the post-war violence), a myriad squatters had moved in and staked their claim on 'new' property. With no one to pay rent to, some of these homes had been built up and become the best in the slums. They weren't to the standards of the suburbs, of course, but they could be lived in quite comfortably. The properties belonging to greedy landlords, however, were a very different matter.

Amongst the buildings and down a thin, dingy alleyway, a man-hole cover moved. Zell pushed the heavy steel plate to one side, pulling himself out onto hard concrete. Moving over, he made way for Quistis to leave the stench of the sewers.

She rose to her feet, picking at her clothes, and made a noise of disgust. "I need a shower and then I'm burning these clothes. I don't think I'll ever get that smell out."

Zell nudged the cover back into place, nodding at Quistis' comment. He would have liked to do the same, but clothes were clothes and he needed every gil he could get his hands on.

Grinning, he turned to his friend. "Well, I'm off. See ya tomorrow."

His friend's eyes shot up to him. "What? Squall said to go back to the warehouse."

He gave a cheery wave, stepping backwards as he did so. "Tell him that I made it back okay then," he retorted, and before she could object further he turned and ran off down the alley.

Turning the corner, he slowed his pace to a jog, making his way along a row of terraced housing. Every now and then he'd pass a boarded up dwelling, an empty lot, or a house with a light still on and the sounds of a domestic argument faintly penetrating the walls to the outside world. Nothing out of the ordinary, and a far cry from the world of hot-headed teens he'd just come from. The lack of gunfire was a godsend.

At the end of the road the Fallen Tower loomed over the slumland at its feet, giving Zell a familiar sense of unease and dread. There wasn't anything that unusual about it, just a tower that used to be a block of flats before the war, but when the city was hit by a major earthquake at the end of the Great War it was too old and weak to withstand the assault. That's what his grandfather had told him, anyway. Whatever the cause had been, half the building had fallen away, lying in a pile at the foot of the structure, burying the houses that had once stood to the east of it.

When Zell was a boy, one of his friends had claimed that he had found a dead body amongst the rubble on the fifth floor. Zell had called him a liar, saying that nobody could get up that high. His friend had told the blonde to go and look for himself. He'd refused, of course. His mother used to terrify him when she got angry, and he had honestly believed that his ma would kill him if she ever found out that he had been in an out of bounds area – and she _would_ have found out. His friends had taunted him, calling him 'chicken-wuss', until eventually they had gone up themselves. At the third floor the stairs collapsed, and two boys had been killed and a girl was left paralysed. She had been rescued, but not before lying there for two days until the other children had worked up the courage to tell the adults what had happened. They had been ten and had never mentioned the body again.

A small passageway between two houses appeared to Zell's right. It was dark and held the potential of muggers, but it was a shortcut home and it wasn't as if he couldn't look after himself. The opportunity was too tempting not to take and soon he turned down the path, stone walls raising high either side of him while his home lay just ahead of him. Nothing happened. He didn't even see anyone till he reached the entrance to the block of flats, where a group of teenagers stood to the side. They didn't look up at him, they were more interested in whatever they were crowded around. Zell decided he didn't want to know.

He barely noticed that the glass in the front door was cracked, the flickering light or the fact that his lift was out of order again. In his absence someone had spray-painted an obscene word on the corridor wall, and he could just hear his mother tutting in the back of his head. With this in mind he shot up the stairs, taking them three at a time, only slowing down when he stepped onto the fourth floor.

A young couple at the end of the corridor giggled, tipping out the contents of their handbags onto the floor, looking for their keys. Both were obviously inebriated, and neither of the women looked up as he stepped before his own door.

"I got 'em," one cried triumphantly just as Zell opened the front door and stepped into his apartment.

He softly pushed the door shut behind him, cutting off the giggling from the outside. Now that the main source of light had disappeared, the room was thrown into a semi-gloom. Only moonlight lit the apartment now, streaming in from a single window across from him, but it cast enough light for him to make out the kitchenette and the battered sofa. Three doors lead off this room, one to the bathroom and the other to two bedrooms. They were lucky to have a place like this, but his great-grandfather had lived here at the end of the Great War, so his family had lived here ever since. It was just a shame that their landlord was a dick.

"Zell? Is that you?" A voice called from one of the bedrooms and light filtered faintly through the gaps around the door as a light was switched on.

Zell dropped his keys on a battered table by the door and kicked off his shoes before making his way towards the voice.

"Yeah, ma. It's me." He pushed the door open.

The room was dimly lit by a bedside lamp. When he entered the room his ma rolled onto her back and set about pushing herself into an upright position. Zell rushed in, passing the TV he'd managed to buy to keep her occupied on the days she was bedridden.

"No, don't get up. I didn't mean to wake you."

His mother ignored him, sitting up and patting on spot on the bed, waiting for Zell to sit beside her.

"You didn't wake me."

Zell perched on the edge of the small bed. Beside him, his ma looked pale, the dark bags under her eyes alarmingly pronounced. He still remembered her as a strong woman, ready to chase him down and smack him round the head when he did something wrong, but her body was a shell of what it used to be, withered away by illness. She was so weak now, often confined to her bed to rest and save her strength, dependant on her son to provide.

"You shouldn't have waited," Zell objected. "Have you taken your medicine?" He looked to the side table where a jug of water stood beside an empty glass and a half empty pill box.

"I'm not a child, I've taken them. Where were you?"

"A job," the lie came easily to his lips, now that he'd used it so many times.

"The Kramers are good to give you so much work, but they do keep you late sometimes. What kind of work were you doing today?"

Zell avoided making eye contact, pouring a glass of water for his mother. "Delivery," he half lied. "You know, odd jobs. It's not safe for people their age to be wondering round in these times."

"It's not safe for you either. There are gangs all over the place now."

"Yeah ma, I know," he said, trying to prevent his smile from becoming strained and the guilt from creeping into his eyes. "But I'm fine," he clenched her hand. "I can look after myself."

Her hand tightened round his. "I know, but they have knives and guns."

The gun in his back pocket felt heavy, itching against his skin and burning into his conscience. He dreaded to think what his mother would say if she found out her boy owned one of those guns she so hated. He swallowed, keeping his smile in place.

"Don't worry, I'm always careful." She smiled up at him, her eyelids sliding closed. "I'll leave you; let you get back to sleep."

Zell stood and moved out of his mother's way so she could slide back to a laying position. Her head fell against the pillow and she pulled her son's hand to her lips, pressing a kiss against them.

"How'd I end up with such a good boy? With all the madness in the slum, you still managed to keep your head on straight. My boy can keep out of trouble."

Zell's stomach knotted, thankful that she couldn't see his shameful expression, betraying how he'd turned his back on all she thought he was. He watched as her breathing deepened as sleep consumed her. Zell's thumb brushed over her knuckles, watching the woman sleep. He wrestled away the sickening guilt that he hadn't felt for over a year. He'd gotten so good at pushing it away and pretending it wasn't there, but at times like these…

If his ma knew what he really did for these jobs and who his friends were, she would be so disappointed in him.

"It's all for you, ma," he whispered. It was always for her, like hell he'd sit back and watch her die without even trying to help.

(&)

There was a hum. A distant and ever-present hum, but it was so close, too close to be ignored. She could shove it to the back of her mind, but it never stopped. Covering her ears would do no good, because the noise didn't come from the world around her. If only that _were_ the case; but no, it came from inside her head. A constant reminder of the last five years of her life, of what had been done to her, what the 'doctors' had turned her into. However, what scared her more than anything was the realisation that she had no idea what had been done and, more importantly, what she was now.

She knew some of what had been done to her, enough to know that she wasn't certain if she was entirely human anymore. Her right hand hovered over her left bicep where a large bruise was blossoming across her skin. Surely that proved she was at least partly human, but then, underneath that skin was proof of her recent status: an experiment. Oh, but she had become so much more than that; she'd become _his_ pet project, favoured until she was no longer the one who was practiced on. That … thing, that (vile, vile, vile) man perfected his craft on others before adding to her. Then he had found a way to suppress her 'ghost' (it wasn't a ghost god damn it, it was her!) and he could switch her on and off like a toy. Turn her off, play with her, change her and then switch her back on again. She'd miss days or her life, and then weeks and then months, all in one go.

She had no idea how she came to be here. One minute she'd gone _under_ in the lab and when she'd woken up again she was in a car, surrounded by strangers (and a certain set of stormy eyes that seemed so _calm_) and lots of confusion. Not much had changed now, things were just calmer. Externally, that was.

Internally, her mind churned in confusion. It tried so hard to understand what was going on, whilst simultaneously trying to order the mess that filled her head and remember things that were slowly trickling back to her. She was now beginning to remember things aside from sterile walls and white coats. All the while there was information, names, places, images and facts, that didn't belong to her. They vied for attention, trying to tear her away from the present and out-compete her own thoughts. If she managed to catch one of these pseudo-thoughts, they'd draw her in and try to consume her. She would slip _under_ and her other part would swallow her whole. It scared her; who knew if she'd come out again? So, she pushed the unfamiliar thoughts aside, to the back of the head with the constant humming (or were those thoughts the humming?), but sometimes it didn't seem to –

"You 'k'?" She shook her head, pulling herself away from her depressing thoughts. In front of her hovered a pair of large, sparkling green eyes. The owner spoke again. "It's not hurting you, is it?"

She blinked in confusion. "What?"

"Ya bruise, yar holdin' it," the green-eyed girl explained. "I'm sorry 'bout that, I get excited when I drive. Forget others are in the car with me."

She realised then that she was holding the bruise. A small 'oh' escaped her and she dropped the arm. "No, well a little, but it doesn't matter."

"You sure?" the strange girl asked.

She nodded.

"Okay then." The other girl bounced up, straightening and grinning cheerfully. "I'm Selphie, by the way. Quistis should be back with some clothes in a minute."

The brunette's smile was infectious and she could feel the corners of her mouth twitch up. She was so happy and bouncy, this Selphie.

After she'd arrived at this building, she'd become more like herself, or what she thought was herself. She had time to try to pull herself together, but it was tricky. She and that other man – she never caught his name – had arrived at what looked like an old warehouse. She'd been lead inside and entered what seemed like a large communal area, but she couldn't tell as it was rather dark. Two large fires lit the room and, judging from the way Selphie's room was also lit, she wondered if the building was still connected to a power line.

Selphie and … Irvine, yes that was his name, arrived soon after. They had talked for a while with the man who had accompanied her, their leader, (… yes, she was sure of that much, he felt like a leader), and she had watched them all, ignoring the eyes of the other strangers who hung round the edges of the room. It wasn't long until a blonde woman, whom she now knew was Quistis, joined them as well. They didn't seem very happy at her arrival … no, that wasn't it, there was something else. The four teens had spoken for a couple of minutes before Selphie had led her upstairs…

"Ya sure are quiet. Don't worry, we won' hurt you." Once again Selphie interrupted her thoughts, drawing attention to the fact that she'd drifted away from the present.

She mentally shook away her wayward thoughts and smiled back at Selphie. She wasn't sacred; perhaps she should be, but she wasn't. Maybe it was simply the fact that she no longer feared for her life like she once had. It wasn't as if she had much of one left, after all. It may have simply been gratitude. These people had taken her out of her white world. It didn't matter what the reason for the rescue had been, she could move forward now.

No, it was more than that. She was sure that if she felt threatened, that there would be a least some fear, but she didn't feel it. She could have been insulted, raped, murdered or beaten at any point in the last couple of hours, but instead she was sitting here, on a bed in a girl's room while someone looked for some clothes for her to wear. No, she didn't think these people were interested in harming her. Though she was sure that the story would be completely different if they had met ten years ago, when she was still the rich daughter of a high-ranking general (…yes, she had been rich hadn't she? Pretty dress and pretty things…).

"I suppose I'm just rather dazed. I'm trying to put everything together. It sometimes takes a while after I wake up." She'd spend so much time _under_ over the last few years that it was just a relief to be awake again, free to think and feel and move (aside from that damn humming in the back of head).

"So," Selphie flopped down onto the bed next to her. "Squall says ya name's Rinoa."

Rinoa, yes, that was her name, and with it so many other things came back to her. Her sixth birthday, her favourite pet, her mother's death (the blood that covered the windscreen) and what her bedroom had looked like. All of it rushed into her mind without rhyme or reason.

The door opened, cutting off Rinoa's thoughts. Quistis stepped inside, a bundle of clothing in her hands. The blonde came to stand beside her and offered her the garments.

"I managed to scrounge these from people."

"Thank you, that's very kind."

"No problem. Squall told people to give you some spare clothes, so that's what they did. Just pick some to wear and I'll take the rest back."

Rinoa shifted through the clothes. They weren't what she was used to before her father's fall from favour. No designer clothes or velvets and silks. These clothes were old, faded and poorly made, in her opinion. They wouldn't fit her very well, but then beggars couldn't be choosers. She was grateful for any attire, and not just a long coat. Picking out clothes to wear she looked up at the other two girls in the room.

"Erm … can you turn around?"

They didn't seem to mind. Quistis merely shrugged and turned to the door. Selphie, still smiling, bounced to her feet and bobbed on her toes, examining a poster of an attractive man on her wall. Slipping out of the coat, Rinoa began to dress.

"Who's Squall?" Rinoa broke the silence. If she was here then she may as well find out as much as she could about the people around her.

Selphie was the one who answered. "That guy that brough' ya here." Rinoa bite back the comment on her tongue. She may not be afraid of these girls, however she did want to stay on their good side, and somehow she didn't think the way to do that was correcting their grammar. "He's our leader. Started the gang an' all, not sure he meant to though, kinda just happened. Made our base here, 'course we had to chuck out the last gang who were here. Some joined us, but we had to sort loads of 'em out."

"Squall," Rinoa whispered. _Squall._ Her rescuer, her saviour.

Selphie continued talking about their leader. She spoke about him with a kind of friendly affection weaved with respect, she genuinely liked her leader and that's why she followed him. At least, that was the impression that Rinoa got. Selphie continued talking about the gang, of Squall and her friends. Eventually the brunette turned round again, correctly assuming that Rinoa had finished dressing.

She gave Rinoa a big grin and the thumbs up. "Lookin' good."

"Thanks."

Rinoa looked up. In front of her, a large mirror was propped up against the wall. It was obvious that she was wearing other people's clothes; they were either a little too tight or too baggy, and some were even men's garments. Her hair hung limply around her face. She reached up, taking a lock between her thumb and fore-finger. It was far longer than she would have liked, but then, it had had several years to grow. Maybe she could cut it at some point.

From the corner of her eye she could she Quistis turn and examine her.

"That'll do till we can return you."

Rinoa looked sharply from the mirror to Quistis, feeling fear for the first time that evening. "Return me?"

They couldn't mean back to the lab. Why bother taking her in the first place if they were just going to take her back? Maybe they were planning on ransoming her; she'd probably fetch a high price, but was it really worth meddling with the military for her ransom? It would have to be extraordinarily high and if that was the case, she had nothing to offer them to change their mind.

No, something was wrong with that idea as well. If she was just a hostage, then they wouldn't treat her like this. The girls, and even Squall in his own quiet way, had been kind enough to her.

"Yes, some guy is paying us to get you to him," Selphie replied, once again breaking her train of thought. "Your father."

Rinoa couldn't breathe. "My father?"

"Yeah," Selphie looked uncertain as she continued, "it's not a problem is it?"

Rinoa felt a laugh break free from her. A problem? She was going back to her father and away from those … scientists … men … _animals_. She felt her eyes prickling at the sudden knowledge that she could forget about all of this, shove it into the back of her head with that infernal humming and never look back on it again. Her laugh turned to a half sob as tears started to fall. She'd really escaped from hell. Was it a _problem?_ Rinoa couldn't think of anything less like a problem. She hadn't felt this hopeful, this excited, this relieved, this happy, this … free, for years.

* * *

…and breath. :D After a busy first two chapters, we take time to sit back a little and relax.

Sorry it took so long, I hope the next one will be quicker, but I now have a job so...


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** At some point I will update within a reasonable amount of time. My excuse this time? I've spend the last two months buried under the construction of three cosplays. Two cons within Two weeks of each other and three new costumes to make. Never. Again. Or at least I'll leave myself an extra month next time. I didn't even get time to write/draw anything to mark the death of Brian Jacques Something of a childhood hero of mine.

**Chapter 4**

Squall's gang based themselves in an old abandoned building deep within an industrial estate, well within the borders of Balamb Ghetto. It had been another gang's turf before they moved in, up until two years ago when Squall and his friends had taken the building for themselves and thus secured Balamb as their territory. Defeated, the other gang had fled to lick their wounds and crumbled under internal disputes, tearing each other apart rather than banding together to take down their enemies.

There was nothing particularly special about the building itself; it was merely an old, run-down warehouse. At some point in its existence, however, it had been converted into a three story, hall-like communal living block which made it an ideal base for a gang to gather and live in. The previous occupants had lived in squalor, but Squall's group had cleaned the base up - lead by Quistis - and made it fit for human life. Getting rid of the garbage had been half the job; after the rubbish had gone, so had the rats. However, there were things that none of them could fix. There were walls throughout the structure that were damaged beyond repair, and one room was completely missing the floor. There were other problems, too; at some indeterminate point in the past the water pipes had burst, which meant that their water supply had to come from a tank on the roof. There was also no power; they were reliant on power cells to provide warmth and electricity. It wasn't a big problem in the summer when it was warm and there was plenty of light, but as winter drew closer and the days got colder ...

Despite these problems, it was a comfortable place to live, especially in comparison to the rest of the outer city. There was no landlord to squeeze money out of them, and they could do whatever the hell they liked in, and with, the building. Each member had claimed their own room, adding touches of their own personalities to the décor; posters of bands or celebrities, a lick of paint, trinkets to make the room theirs. Of course, these touches often spilled into the rest of the building. Soon after Zell became a full member of the gang he'd started showing off his artistic ability by spray painting murals along the corridors, causing an outburst of artistic competition between other gang members.

The flat roof provided a good view of the surrounding area, not that there was much to see. Besides, Squall wasn't there for the view. He stalked across the roof, making certain that he was alone, before flicking open his phone. Halting his slow meander, he punched in the number he'd memorised. He didn't have to wait long for a reply.

_"Leonhart?"_ The voice was more distant than the last time; the reception was bad, even up high in the open air.

"Yes."

He could imagine the other man sagging in relief as the tension left his voice. _"You had me worried. Why did you leave it so late to contact me?"_

"You lied to me."

_"Pardon?"_

"You lied to me," Squall repeated, clearly and tonelessly. "You didn't tell me that the girl was an android and you didn't tell me that Doctor Odine was involved. Do you know how much shit we're in if ESTO finds out? Or the military?"

_"Firstly,"_ the man on the other end of the line stated, with ice in his tone, _"'that girl' is my daughter. Not an android, or creature, my daughter. I didn't tell you that Doctor Odine was involved because he's on the run; some of his research got a little too nasty and important people began asking questions, so__he's severed all his ties and is working alone. He can't even use his own company. It hardly matters who he used to work for now."_

"Bollocks. The fact that he's on the run after stealing from ESTO just means that they'll be looking even harder for him, which makes it more likely they'll find us. You didn't tell me because you knew that I wouldn't take the job."

_"Now _you're_ the one who's lying. You still would have taken the job, Leonhart, because of what I can offer you."_

Squall didn't reply. Was it true? Would he have still taken the job? As much as he hated to admit it, Caraway was right; he would have, because he needed what the older man was willing to pay him.

_ "Is Doctor Odine dead?"_ Caraway asked, breaking the silence.

"He was in the room when we entered."

_"I see. I can't say I'm sorry to hear that; he was a twisted man. He could have put his genius to noble use if he wished, but instead he wasted it on his weapons and projects."_

"Like every other scientist in Esthar."

_ "That's a rather bold statement. You should know better than that."_

"Yeah, because they've done _so_ much for us." A hint of sarcasm crept into Squall's voice as he looked out over the city, at the slums that lay crumbling before him. "Science fuelled the Great War, and then ignored the slum it created. They take people like your _daughter_ and turn them into numbers. All in the name of _science,_ of course, but they don't tell us what their _science_ is trying to achieve. In the pursuit of their own knowledge, they'll hurt anyone."

_ "Whatever was done to my daughter was done by _men,_ not a concept,"_ Caraway argued. _"These people were not seeking truth to expand their wisdom, they were trying to play God. That selfish thirst for power and self-righteousness is dangerous and destructive, but it is the tragedy of _man_, not science. However, now is not the time for philosophical debate. I assume that you will still bring Rinoa to me tomorrow?"_

Squall clenched his jaw in frustration, but he resisted the urge to counter the older man's arguments. It simply wasn't worth the hassle. "Of course. I want to get rid of her as soon as possible."

_ "You remember the rendezvous?"_

"Just make sure you have the payment," Squall warned. He wasn't going through all this for nothing.

_ "Naturally. Within twenty-four hours I will be long gone with my daughter, out of your hair, and you will have what I promised you. I'll see you tomorrow." _

The phone went dead.

Squall pocketed the device, his scowl more pronounced than before. Caraway had better make good on his promise; he just couldn't shake the feeling that he'd just picked up the biggest bundle of trouble in Esthar, and it wouldn't be as easy to shake off as it was to pick up.

(&)

Squall stepped into his room, eyes trained on the woman in front of him. Her back was turned to him as she examined the wall of his room, or more specifically, the collection of swords that he had picked up over the years. She was clothed now, a strange mixture of garments that members of the gang had been willing to give her. Though, for the moment, all he could tell was that she wore a long black coat.

He unclipped his gun holster from around his waist, throwing it into a nearby chair before dropping his shoulder holsters on top of it. She never flinched or showed any acknowledgment that one of the most powerful gang leaders in Esthar had entered the room, which also just happened to be his bedroom. He walked across the floor, to the other side of his bed, if one could call several double mattresses piled on top of each other a bed, and stood a couple of feet away from the girl. From his new vantage point he could see the sleeveless black crop-top underneath an open men's blue shirt she wore. A pair of black jogging bottoms and a pair of boots, that he was sure had once belonged to Quistis, completed the outfit. It was good; she'd blend in with the other members of the gang.

She turned to smile at him, her expression blissfully ignorant. In his opinion, the only two kinds of people who wore such an expression were the rich and the stupid, neither of whom he liked. However, people sometimes seemed innocent and care-free, like Selphie, but it was as much a mask as a legitimate veneer; it hid a certain darkness that one needed in order to survive the slums. Anyone who knew Selphie was aware of this. That ever-present light-hearted smile was the same one she had once worn, covered in blood, as she castrated a man who had 'messed with one of her sister-whores'.

"You have a lot of swords," Rinoa said, her voice completely different to the one from last night. There was a playful edge to it, as if she thought she was at a school dance.

"I've had a long time to collect them," Squall replied nonchalantly.

She tilted her head to the side. "What is it? Some kind of fetish?" For the first time, she showed a not-so-innocent streak under her sweet exterior.

He frowned down at her. "Just because I like swords doesn't mean I have a fetish for them."

The girl smiled back. "Of course not."

She looked up at the wall again, her fingers hovering above a particular sword. She traced the lines, but her fingers never touched the surface. It was just as well; he wasn't sure if he'd get paid should he break her fingers for leaving smudge marks on his favourite sword's blade.

"I like this one," she said, "It's interesting, and beautiful. I've never seen anything like it."

"It's called a gunblade. You can't buy them normally; you have to go through the black market. If you plunge that into someone and pull the trigger, the vibrations can shatter bones." Not to mention turning flesh into something resembling badly-set jelly, though he left that part unsaid.

She withdrew her hand. "I'm glad you don't use it then."

"Guns are more practical. I'm not even sure if that weapon actually works. Your name is Rinoa Heartilly." Bored with the small talk, he quickly changed the subject.

"Yes." She smiled to herself. "Yes, it is."

"Your father is paying us to return you to him. We'll take you tomorrow."

"Thank you, but if you don't mind me asking, why is a gang doing deliveries?"

Squall crossed his arms over his chest, examining the woman before him. Maybe she wasn't as stupid as he had first assumed. "Your father is a rich man."

She shook her head lightly as she replied. "Not anymore, he isn't. And even if he was, most gangs would just shoot him and take his money. You obviously don't have much love for the wealthy, even if they are _ex_-wealthy."

"Maybe I felt sorry for him."

She gave him a hard look. "I doubt that."

She really wasn't stupid. "You're right. I sometimes do favours for the right people and make sure I get a good price out of it. I'm nobody's lapdog, but everyone needs money and a few favours can go a long way."

"If I'm just a package, then why am I here?"

Squall bit down a smile, unable to resist the wicked urge to see how far he could push her. She was so different to how she was yesterday and he wanted to see how fragile this new persona was, how careful he would have to be when he took her to the rendezvous point tomorrow. Or maybe it was just a bit of sadistic revenge for all the trouble she had caused. He unfolded his arms and took a couple of steps until he stood directly across from her.

"Why are you here?" He took another step forward, forcing her back against the wall. "Why else would someone with your looks be in my bedroom?"

Her gaze never wavered, nor did she shrink away. She stared him in the eye without fear and Squall felt a stab of admiration for her courage, but it was soon replaced by shock when she smiled at him. She actually _smiled_, a sweet, closed mouthed smile.

"You won't assault me, Squall Leonhart," she announced in a steady voice. The man in question shook away his surprise; she'd been with the gang for hours now, so of course she'd know his name.

"I won't? I know you have a good body under those clothes."

She blushed, but she didn't avert her gaze. "No, you won't. Because no matter what you want others to think, I don't think you're a bad person."

A harsh but quiet laugh escaped Squall as he stepped away from her. Now, _that_ was something he hadn't heard in a long time. So much for the girl being smarter than she seemed; she had no idea what kind of danger she was potentially in. Still, the response had been unexpected. He'd thought she would hide behind her father's name, rather than challenge him directly.

He walked away to a corner of his room where he kept his liquor. She wasn't wrong; he hadn't asked her here for intimate companionship. He had a more important matter to get to the bottom of.

"You're right, I didn't ask you here for a tumble. I have some questions." Selecting a plain brown bottle, he took a long swig before holding it out to his guest. "Whiskey?"

She shook her head. "I was always more of a sherry girl … I think."

Reaching down, he plucked up another bottle and tossed it to Rinoa. The girl caught it clumsily, laughing. "I've never been given quite this much at once, I can be sure of that much."

"You're not in the land of the rich anymore. We do things differently here."

"Yes, I can see that. I'm surprised you had anything like this, to be honest. It doesn't strike me as a slum drink."

"It's alcoholic," he offered by way of explanation. "It gets you plastered. That's the point in the end, isn't it?"

"I guess." She looked at the bottle and fiddled with the cork, but otherwise didn't touch it. "I have a question about your gang. Your call yourselves SeeD?"

"Yeah."

"Why?"

"'Murdering Sons of Bitches' and 'Friends of the Earth' were taken," he drawled in a deadpan voice, neatly sidestepping the question. He dropped heavily into a chair, taking another swig as he did so. "My turn. What the hell are you?"

"Not much for charm, are you?"

"No, and you didn't answer my question. What _are_ you? What is going on?"

Rinoa looked at the bottle in her hand, her thumb brushing against the label. She didn't speak. She didn't want to, that was obvious, but right now Squall didn't care. She'd potentially landed him in a whole pile of shit and he wanted to know exactly what to expect. He was about to push her for a reply when she pulled the cork from her bottle and took a long drink to steel her nerves.

"The government isn't kind to those who do what they think is right, not if it doesn't fit with what they want," she began. "My father was made an example of for trying to follow his conscience. His rank was stripped away, his wealth 'confiscated'. He was arrested for treason and," here she took a bit more Dutch courage, "I was taken away and _given_ to Doctor Odine to see what he could do with me." She shivered. "I felt like an animal in a research facility."

Squall's eyes widened. "You were born –"

"Human?" she finished his sentence for him. "Yes."

Squall leaned back, his brain working furiously. So she was a cyborg rather than an android. After finding the girl in the back of the club, he'd started to assume that she was a man-made daughter for the ex-general, or even that the other man was too embarrassed to admit that she was merely an elaborate sex toy – the pieces hadn't sat right for that idea, though, and he had quickly discarded that train of thought. Still, it was a more expected explanation than the truth. He knew that research had gone into cyborg technology, but nothing on the scale of the girl before him. It was mainly medical research – replacement limbs and artificial organs, that sort of thing – at least, it had been when he was last in touch with the inner city. The closest thing to the technology in front of him was jack-in ports that could be surgically grafted to the base of the skull, but they were uncommon and dangerous. The rich were generally distrustful of them, associating them with hackers, while no-one else could afford them. The hackers he knew who used them had gone to back street dealers for their ports, men who were as likely to kill you or reduce you to a vegetable as they were to give you a working port. There was one dealer in the suburbs who had a near one hundred percent success rate, but he was under the influence of the Sorceresses and, as such, was a liability.

Squall suddenly desired a few minutes' silence to try and get his mind around this new twist. Rinoa, however, continued speaking.

"What started as a side venture for Odine became an obsession, I think. I was soon his pet project and now I have no idea how human I am."

She didn't meet his eyes as she spoke, focusing on the bottle in her hands instead. For the first time during their conversation, the girl seemed scared and disturbed. It was strange; Squall had gone as far as threatening rape, and yet her confident visage had never even cracked. This change in her demeanour could only have been caused by memories of personal experiences, not by anything Squall could have said or done. As unsettling as the thought was, it comforted him; it made her seem a little more human. Perhaps he would have let the issue lie, but he still needed more information.

"What was he trying to do?"

She shrugged, pulling herself back together. "Who knows?"

He believed her ignorance was genuine. If she'd been in the state they'd found her in for long, then he doubted she even knew what year it was and from what he'd heard about the doctor, he wouldn't be surprised if working on her was all due to some weird fetish.

She looked back up at him. "How did you come to be here?"

"What do you mean?"

She glanced around. "I mean how did you end up _here?_ Living the life you do?"

"The same way as everyone else does in the slums."

"Really?" She tilted her head to the side, her tone thoughtful, her eyes becoming glassy as she spoke. "You seem different."

"Whatever." He turned back to his bottle, assuming that she was pushing a false persona onto the man she saw as her rescuer. What else could it be?

"You don't quite …" he didn't see her expression, preoccupied as he was; it was becoming increasingly distant, "fit in."

"What do you mean?"

The girl's eyes went blank as she spoke. Her voice lowered, taking on a strange and unsettling monotone. "Squall Leonhart … Squall Leonhart … Squall … Leon … hart … Two matches found. …Negative…negative. Facial match search …"

The man in question looked up at Rinoa, if that was who she still was. Her voice was flat, her expression void of life; this was the girl they had found in the back room yesterday.

"What are you doing?"

"Match found: Squall Liore," she continued, ignoring him utterly. "Missing; presumed dead. Age Nineteen. Date of birth the twenty-third of August, Forty-Sixty-Eight."

The happy-go-lucky girl he was talking to a moment ago was no longer there, he knew that, but he didn't care.

"Shut up." The words came out as a growl as he placed his bottle down. She had better stop now or he would shut her up. Forcefully.

"Place of birth: Esthar City, Memorial Hospital. Mother," at this Squall leapt to his feet, "Raine Liore, previously Raine Leonhart, deceased. Father: La –"

She didn't finish.

"I said _shut the fuck up!"_ he roared, his fist closing around her throat. The bottle fell from her grasp, smashing as it hit the floor, the dark liquid exploding onto the shoddy carpet. Suddenly her eyes cleared, going wide with fear.

"I'm sorry –"

She was back to normal, whatever normal was for her. He forced his hand to relax and released her from his grip. He couldn't let her die; they needed her for the exchange tomorrow. She slid down to the ground, where she remained. He turned away as he tried to get a grip on himself. His actions had been stupid; he didn't normally lose his temper so quickly. Still, though …

"Get out," he managed to say.

"I'm Sorry," she breathed, "I don't – I didn't mean –"

"Out!" he barked, eyes narrowing dangerously.

She didn't waste any more time. Picking herself up, she fled the room, leaving the SeeD leader alone in silence, his thoughts threatening to overwhelm him.

* * *

A/N: Okay, this was a weird chapter and really hope it worked. The first scene was inspired while watching on 'The Ascent of Man' and, if fact, a lot of what Caraway says to Squall is taken from a particular episode that really strikes a chord with the viewer. But then the scene turned out a little … blah. The second was odd because it was actually the first scene I wrote in the entire fic, kind a like a concept chapter. So it needed quite a bit of tweaking when it came time to type it up.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: **Just so you know, this chapter gets gory at one point. As it more prominent than previously, I was advised to add a warning to the beginning. You have been warned.

**Chapter 5**

West Town Bazaar wasn't particularly busy, but it wasn't exactly deserted either. The road was a parade of shops well within gangland territory, though the word 'shop' was a generous term for the somewhat questionable kiosks where men, women, and their families sold whatever wares they could scrounge in small, dingy rooms of dubious sanitary conditions. That wasn't to say that some weren't better than others, though; the store at the end of the road was owned by a man who swept the floor every day, cleaned the walls, and actually took the time to make sure the roaches and rodents stayed away. It was better kept than the brothel above it, for which everyone who shopped there was thankful.

Running one of these shops was a risky business, and was normally a two-man operation. The shopkeeper would man a desk and a calculator, with a safe located nearby to secure the day's intake. His or her partner would stand nearby with a gun (or whatever weapon was available to them) to support their colleague in case some of the local heavies tried their luck. That said, most of these shops were food stalls that took little profit, and as such were more likely to fall prey to hungry children than greedy toughs.

A woman with a small child stepped around them, giving the five-person group a wide berth as she hugged her young son to her. Most people (barring the suicidally foolish ones) knew to do so when a group practically wore the word 'gang' stamped across their chests. There were signs, if you knew what to look for, that signified a person's involvement in a gang; a certain fashion quirk, distinctive scarification, or perhaps a tattoo, something that marked them as belonging to one group and not another. Lifetime slum dwellers knew these signs as well as the backs of their hands.

In the SeeDs' case, it was the excessive use of belts. Squall hadn't intended for such to be the case; the trait had come about completely by accident. Squall had taken to wearing more belts than were strictly needed whilst reinventing himself – originally it had been for the convenience of having somewhere to holster all his weapons, and then because he found that he actually liked the look. As the gang's members multiplied, the others began imitating his style and soon it had become the distinguishing mark of his mob, as well as a show of hierarchy. It was strange how such things formed all on their own, but soon he realised that he was the only one who wore three belts, while his closest friends wore two and everyone else wore one, which they would sit diagonally across their hips. It was obvious what had happened, but Squall simply shrugged it off. It was as good a system as any.

Squall led them off the main road and onto a quieter street, away from the main shopping drag. They stood out a little more here; he had perhaps brought more people with him than he normally would have, but he really didn't want anything to blow up in his face by only taking one other person. He just wanted to drop the girl off, pick up his payment, and wipe his hands clean of the whole stupid affair. The sooner he was free of this the better and, judging by his charge's mood, the feeling was mutual. She was clearly excited about being reunited with her father, and he got the impression that she was constantly resisting the urge to ask how far it was to their destination.

She was odd, that much was obvious. However, he hadn't spoken more than five words to her since the incident last night, which still set his teeth on edge when he thought about it. She seemed normal enough today, observing their derelict surroundings though the wide-eyed gaze of one born to a privileged life. Occasionally, however, he would catch a glimpse of the girl walking behind him and her eyes would be glossy again, her lips moving while no sound escaped them. It was disturbing, how she swung from one personality to the next; but then, as long as she didn't cause trouble, he couldn't complain. If the others noticed anything, then they didn't say so.

"You're looking at her a lot," Quistis leaned in to speak to him, keeping her voice low.

"I don't want any surprises."

"Are you sure that's it? She's pretty."

Squall didn't dignify that with the answer that popped into his head. Quistis laughed softly and looked back at the girl, walking in front of Irvine who had his arm slung round Selphie's shoulders.

"Strange, isn't she?" Again he didn't reply, and she turned back to him, expression curious. "What happened last night?"

"Nothing."

Quistis raised an eyebrow, showing her blatant disbelief, but didn't push the matter. If Squall didn't want to talk about it, he wasn't going to talk about it and she knew better than to try.

They continued walking as they were, the only comments coming from Irvine and Selphie, until Squall turned down a narrow alleyway which forced them to fall into single file. The alley ended in a small courtyard, the long grass growing through the fractured paving stones a sign of just how infrequently the hidden area saw guests. The calm, still silence was a sharp contrast to the atmosphere on the other side of the buildings, but rather than putting Squall at rest, he felt the beginnings of unease creep in. This quiet seemed unnatural within the city, though he couldn't deny that it was a perfect hiding place. The only other exit was a pair of rusty iron stairs leading to the first floor of one of the side buildings, which Squall made his way towards.

"Squall," Irvine called from behind them. "You sure those are safe to use?"

Squall looked back to his friend, resisting the urge to frown. Until he could be sure there were no surprises waiting for them, he would have preferred everyone to remain silent.

"Scared?"

The long haired man grinned. "Not a chance, but I'm thinkin' our new friend won't be so happy."

The gang leader looked back to the girl in question to see that she was indeed looking rather nervously at the stairs.

"No choice."

"They don't look very safe," Rinoa agreed, slightly timidly.

Squall turned, speaking directly to her for the first time that day. "Then follow behind me."

He crossed the remaining distance to the steps, not bothering to wait for her. He had barely rested his weight on the second stair, which creaked ominously, when he heard her directly behind him and felt her presence. She was right, they weren't safe. It was nothing a little caution and light footwork couldn't take care of, though.

The door at the top of the stairs was little more than a thick slab of metal. No keyhole, he noted, which meant it had to lock and open from within. He knocked on the door, loud enough to alert those inside of their presence, but hopefully not escaping the yard. He waited a few moments, watching a few flakes of red paint fall away from the door, but nothing else happened. He didn't like this. That nagging feeling he'd had since the raid on the club yesterday flared up again, but stronger this time. He knocked again, on the off chance that they simply hadn't heard him. He knew it was a long shot, and was proven right when the door remained steadfastly shut.

"Why don't you try opening it?" Rinoa's question was obvious and stupid. He doubted her father would go to all that trouble to remain hidden, just to leave the door open for anyone to enter as they pleased. Still, with no windows nearby through which he might climb, he saw no other options.

He ran his finger along the gap between the door and the frame. It was far too narrow for his fingers to fit through, or anyone else's for that matter. How the hell was he supposed to try and open it? Leverage, of course. Digging in his jacket pocket, he pulled out a pen knife. Flipping out the blade, he slid it into the gap and began trying to pry the door open. The well oiled door swung outwards with minimal effort.

Every instinct in his body screamed at him to turn and run. This whole setup was suspicious in the extreme, but somewhere on the other side of that door was their prize. They'd come this far, and to turn tail and run now seemed ridiculous. He had no idea why the door wasn't locked; it might simply have been left open for them, as unlikely as that seemed. The thought didn't comfort him, but what were his options? Leave without checking, like a coward, or go in and take a look? Hardening his resolve, he slid Revolver from its holster and swung the cylinder out briefly, making sure the weapon was fully loaded. Slapping the cylinder back into place, he flipped the safety off and glared through the opening. His people needed what Caraway had to offer, so there really was only one choice. _Besides,_ he thought sardonically, _Im only gambling with my life_. Nothing he didn't do on a regular basis.

"Quistis, look after her." He didn't need to turn to see her nod, or know the others were drawing their own weapons.

He listened carefully. He couldn't hear anyone on the other side. He pulled the door further open, ready to fire. The room started to fill with light, and he scanned the room for signs of life. The doorway opened fully, revealing a couple of small wooden crates and food packages, and a complete and utter absence of human life. Holding his breath, he stepped into the room, Revolver straight and steady in front of him, exhaling in relief when nothing leaped from the corners to attack. The others filed into the room behind him at his wave.

"No one 'ere," Selphie announced, peering around her.

"I don't like this," Quistis declared behind Rinoa.

Neither did Squall. His instincts were shrieking at him louder than ever to turn and leave, but his eyes were rooted to the door on the opposite side of the room. They could still turn back now, but he wanted to know what was going on. What was the saying? _What you don't know can't hurt you?_ It wasn't being hurt by knowledge that worried him; it was being killed by ignorance. If they were in deep shit, then he'd rather know just how deep. That way, he might be able to prepare for it.

He crossed the room in four strides, turned the handle of the door, and threw it open, ready to attack. It wasn't, however, a fight that he found.

The smell hit him first, a thick, fetid stench he was unfortunately familiar with. The stink was followed within a second by the sight of what lay inside the room, causing his stomach to twist even further and bile to rise in his throat, threatening to evacuate right then and there. Blood – a hell of a lot of it – coated the room. The red liquid pooled around the bodies, or what remained of them, creeping towards the door and sprayed up the walls. It hadn't quite reached the door yet, and nor had it dried – which, Squall knew, meant that they'd been killed fairly recently. Spent bullet casings cluttered the room.

Whoever had done this had obviously enjoyed it. The three men inside hadn't been killed with a single bullet to the head; someone had had a field day in here. The man in the centre of the room had been on the receiving end of a face full of bullets, disfiguring him beyond recognition, but judging from the looks of the other corpses, Squall had to guess that this was the ex- (in more ways than one, now) General Caraway. Though it was hard to tell, because whoever had decided to ruin the man's face hadn't stopped there; they'd continued further down the body, as if trying to see how much of the corpse they could destroy with a single gun. Around him lay chunks of flesh and … well, he didn't particularly want to think about what else. The body to the left looked as if it had been stabbed to death, his chest riddled with holes while the offending dagger still lay firmly lodged where it had been rammed up through the base of the skull. The man on the right had been beaten to death, if the bloody pole resting beside the body was anything to go by. The skull had been shattered, and the jaw hung grotesquely from it. Broken teeth littered the ground beside him.

A strangled noise came from behind him. He whirled round to see Rinoa standing a step or so away, brown eyes wide as her face crumbled in a mix horror, grief, and a hundred other feelings while her body trembled uncontrollably. She drew another rattled breath, letting the gang leader know just what was coming. His arm snapped forward, clamping a calloused hand firmly over her mouth to muffle the scream that desperately tried to escape. The knowledge that these men were freshly dead brough with it the horrible realisation that whoever had done it could very possibly still be in the area, and the last thing Squall wanted was for their attention to be caught by a hysterical girl.

He turned back to the other members of the party, who looked as disturbed as he did by the sight inside. Quistis looked dangerously close to being sick, while Irvine's complexion had taken on that of the bodies inside, his eyes wider than normal and his face a deathly pale colour. It was Selphie who looked the least disturbed out of the lot of them, pinching her nose with her thumb and forefinger as she looked over the bodies with mild disgust. Damn, but the tiny girl freaked him out sometimes.

He spun Rinoa round, pushing her into Quistis' arms. "Take her and get out of here. All of you get back to the warehouse quickly and make sure you aren't followed."

"What about you?" Quistis tore her eyes away from the scene, still looking dangerously nauseous.

"I'll be right behind you. Just go." He pushed Rinoa towards them as the screaming died down. "We do _not_ want to be found here, so go. _Now!"_

Selphie took Rinoa's hand and pulled her from the room, Irvine following closely behind.

Quistis took one last look at her leader. "Don't hang about either."

"I don't plan to."

Giving him a curt nod, she spun round and ran after her friends. As she disappeared down the unstable iron staircase, he turned back to the death room and stepped inside. He wasn't going through all this for nothing; if their reward was still in here, he was taking it.

An initial sweep with his eyes showed nothing in sight that could be his prize. The desk to the side seemed his most likely bet. He quickly crossed the gap, carefully avoiding the corpses with his eyes and feet while trying not to breathe in too deeply. He tore out the top drawer of the desk and emptied the contents onto the floor. It didn't matter if he made a mess now; whoever discovered the bodies would assume that it was done by a gang looking for valuables. It would fit with the murders; vicious, chaotic, and utterly uncaring of human life. He ripped the middle drawer from the desk, tipping the inside on the ground. It looked like the work of a common street gang, but it didn't ring true for him.

He emptied the last drawer onto the growing pile at his feet. Nothing, it was all crap. He yanked the table away from the wall to find an empty space. Shit! The bastards, it wasn't here.

He hit the desktop in frustration and paused. He tapped it again, then moved his hand along the surface to the other end and tapped again. He smiled. The desktop was too thick and, more to the point, it was hollow, at least on one side. He squatted to look at the joining and, finding an irregularity, lifted the top. Inside lay a thick metal briefcase. He snatched up the case; the heavy weight in his hand seemed to confirm his hopes that this was indeed what he searched for. He dropped the false top back into place and, finally listening to his instincts, turned and fled the room like a bat out of hell.

He slammed the heavy door of the bloody room closed as he passed, sprinting across the room and closing the front door as well. The rusty stairs swayed precariously as he half ran, half slid down them, threatening to break free of the wall at any moment. They didn't. He was across the yard and out the other end of the alley within half a minute.

He knew it! He just _knew_ this was a bad job.

What's more, he had a feeling that this was just the beginning.

(&)

_Blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood –_

The word chased itself around her head. It was everywhere, the floor, the walls, her fath –

A sob broke from her throat. Why? What had she ever done to deserve this? The last five years and now _this._ It wasn't fair. It was cruel to give her hope just to have it torn away in such a brutal manner and oh God the _blood. _All her father had been guilty of was trying to do the right thing. To go in such a way, with so much violence and his face–

"Hey, Princess."

She looked up, realising that they'd stopped in the middle of the pavement by a large four way crossing. Only the very occasional car went by, but despite this the air was heavy, thick with pollution, nothing like the clean inner city air. She shook her head. That wasn't the point. The point was that they were _free_ of that small dark room. When had they left? She didn't remember leaving, or running down the street, though they must have run. All she remembered was staring at the bodies and the blood and her father's face _carved to mincemeat_ –

"Princess," she recognised Quistis' voice this time. It was Irvine last time, she thought hazily. Maybe. "People are staring at you, you have to stop it."

She looked up at the blonde blankly; she didn't understand what she was talking about.

"Ya mutterin' to yourself," Selphie explained for her, "Ya keep sayin' 'blood'."

She blinked in surprise, looking between the three friends. She had no idea that she'd been mumbling the word that plagued her mind. It was like the blackouts all over again, but at least she had the small comfort that the cause this time was more 'natural', a small comfort indeed.

"I know this is a shock," Quistis continued, "But you've gotta try and act normal."

"I'm sorry. I didn't know. I just, it's –"

Selphie put a hand on her shoulder and smiled. "We know, but Squall weren't happy 'bout this in th' first place. So now more'n ever, we don' wanna 'tract 'tention to us. Don' wanna end up like daddy now, do ya?"

She shook her head mutely.

Quistis turned to Irvine. "You see Squall yet?"

"Nah, but chill, he'll come."

"We can' wai' 'bout for him, he won' be happy about tha'," Selphie adding, turning away from Rinoa.

Quistis frowned and made a noise that clearly showed her aggravation. "What the hell is he doing?"

Beside her, Irvine shrugged. "You know Squall. He does some weird shit sometimes, but never for no reason."

She didn't seem any happier.

"Come on," Irvine said, pulling Selphie into motion.

"Oh," Selphie exclaimed. "Squall."

They turned to look in the direction they'd just come from. Rinoa's heart lifted a little upon seeing the surly gang leader, relieved to see that he was unharmed. He ran towards them and she realised that he now carried a briefcase in one hand. She was certain he hadn't been hauling that about earlier. He slowed down as he approached them, frowning openly between them.

"Why'd you stop?"

"Sorry, it was my fault," Rinoa tried not to waver under his stern glare, but it was so much harder now than it had been last night. She was relieved when he looked away.

"Fine, come on then." He started off down the street again.

"Hey, what's in the case and where'd you get it?" Irvine called, following after him.

"Doesn't matter," Squall threw back.

"Doesn't matter, my ass," Selphie retorted as she lead Rinoa down the street.

The leader didn't respond and he obviously wasn't going to illuminate the situation. Rinoa stared down at the case as it banged against his legs. It looked heavy, tightly locked as well. Not like the nice smart briefcases the businessmen in the city centre carried, with their smooth leather coverings and gold lettering. No, this case was a thick, ugly steel construct that looked as if it was designed to carry valuable cargo. The ever present hum in her head grew and for once she welcomed it. She wanted the distraction the case provided, needed it. The container looked military … yes, definitely military issue, a bog standard secure case with thumb print recognition to open it. An older model, discontinued in 1785 after it was decided that the print recognition was no longer safe enough for classified documents after spies stole secret papers and a street gang jumped a man transporting a million gil to the central bank. The youths cut off his thumb, which they used to open the case in a more private loca –

"Rinoa."

She blinked when Selphie nudged her. "Yes?"

"Ya talkin' to yourself."

Oh no, not again. She was going crazy, she knew it. Whatever had been done to her was driving her insane. She was talking to herself about stupid secure cases. At least she thought it was about the case, she wasn't sure what else she could be muttering about, but then, maybe this was just a sign that she was further gone than even she supposed. She was just thinking about it and the flow of information just came to her from God only knew where. Why would she even know the history of –

"Hey, Princess," it was Irvine again, "You're zoning out on us again."

She realised they'd all stopped now, watching her as she faded in and out of reality. She clutched her upper arm with one hand, looking at the ground. "I'm sorry."

"This isn't working," Squall suddenly announced.

Quistis frowned across at him. "She's had a massive shock; you can't expect her to be as cool about it as us. I don't think you'd be any better if it was your father lying there."

There was a sternness in her voice that Rinoa had never heard in anyone else's when they spoke to their leader. Squall didn't bother holding her gaze, turning on his heel and matching off.

"Go Quisty," Selphie muttered to the blonde who smiled in return.

They watched as Squall walked along the street to a child with a large bag over one shoulder. He stopped in front of the boy, who looked up at Squall.

"Give you a fiver for ya bag," Squall proposed.

The kid gave him a discontent scowl. "Gonna 'ave to do betta then tha'."

"Okay, then. Give me your bag or I'll beat you to death with this." He lifted up the case to efficiently emphasis his point.

Rinoa felt her eyes go wide as she watched the two. He wouldn't, she was sure of it. He was wouldn't be so mean to such a small kid, he couldn't be much older than ten. The boy didn't seem so sure though as he shoved his bag at Squall.

"Selphie." The petite girl practically skipped over to her leader when her name was called. She took the case that was held out to her.

Unzipping the bag, Squall emptied the contents of the backpack onto the pavement.

"Oi, tha's mah stuff!"

The gang leader ignored the boy who scrambled about to collect up his possessions. The young man took the case and shoved it into the now free bag, making sure the backpack was firmly closed. With the case hidden from view- it was generally a bad idea to flaunt that you were carrying something value while in the slums- he looked down at the kid who was collecting up the last of his things.

"Tell anyone about this and I will personally find you and throw you off the tallest building I can find. Now scram."

The boy did as he was told, running across the street and down a passageway, getting away as quickly as his legs could carry him. Squall turned to join the others, Selphie on his heels.

"That was mean," Rinoa found herself saying, "He's just a kid."

"You'd rather be dead?" She was taken aback by his harsh response, unsure of how to reply to such a comment apart from to shake her head, but he didn't wait for her come-back. "We'll split up. Irvine and Selphie, take the princess and stop her from …" he paused and looked at her "… doing whatever the hell she does. Don't worry about doing it quickly, I don't think we're bein' followed, but I'd rather make sure."

Rinoa felt Irvine wrap an arm around her shoulders, cutting off her indignation at the leader's off-handed comment about her. "Gotcha Squall."

Selphie slipped beside her and linked her arm through Rinoa's, pulling her away as Irvine started talking.

"You're lucky Princess, to have the pleasure of my company, and Selphie's, could be stuck with Squall instead."

She tried to crane her neck round, but only caught a glance of the man before he took off down the road with Quistis. "He's not that bad."

"Not always, but ya should see some of the ways he turns down girls. 'Course, most've 'em deserve it."

She turned her attention back to the man who towered above her. "How so?"

She wasn't really interested to know how, but once again she found herself welcoming the distraction. There was something comforting about Irvine's relaxed attitude and Selphie's boundless enthusiasm amongst all of the chaos in her life. They managed to push the blood in her thoughts away for the moment, back to a dark corner of her mind, where it would wait to spring on her again. But for now, at least, she could pretend that she was free of it.

(line break)

**A/N:** And after a long break, another chapter. Sorry, my life did a complete flip around in the last few months (in a good way), as some of my readers will know.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

The sight of the warehouse had never been so welcoming, and after the sheer chaos that had been his day so far, Squall desperately needed the refuge. Once inside he could sit in his room, break open the case, then divide up the bounty between him and his friends. After that, he could sit and metaphorically bang his head against the wall as he tried to convince himself that they weren't all in deep shit, and that they could easily weasel their way out of this whole stupid situation.

After all, there was no way to be certain that those killers were after Rinoa. It was entirely possible that Caraway may just have pissed of some very dangerous people, a definite possibility if the ex-general been hiding out in the slums for long. He doubted it was true, but it was possible. It was just too much of a coincidence for comfort. His best hope was that the culprits hadn't noticed the gang leave, or knew what had happened to the girl.

Squall frowned. It wasn't out of the realm of possibility. After all, there was no one there waiting for them when they found the bodies, and he was certain they hadn't been followed back. If they really did want to find out who had Rinoa, why not wait at the scene of the crime and ambush them? Unless this was a warning, of course – but a warning for what? To hand the girl over? _To whom?_ Not to dig any deeper? _Into what?_ Why would he _want_ to dig any deeper? There was some seriously weird shit going down in the slums this week, and weird was never a good thing in his line of work. Much better to keep his nose out of it.

Maybe it _was_ a warning, just aimed at someone completely different. There were just so many questions and possibilities to consider, and he wanted no part of any of it.

"Squall!" He looked up to see Nida running towards him, and he did _not_ like the look his face. Something about it told Squall that his day was only going to get worse.

He halted out of earshot of the warehouse. Quistis stopped beside him as they waited for Nida to reach them.

"There's someone waitin' fer ya," the younger gang member panted, coming to a halt in front of his leader.

"Tell them to get lost." Squall started to move past the Nida, but the boy interrupted him.

"One problem, Boss. It's Almasy."

Squall swore curtly. He didn't need this, not now; the timing could not possibly be worse. Inspector Seifer Almasy of the Esthar Metropolitan Police could be … annoying. He was one of the few cops who actually bothered to press charges against gangs and the bigger-fish criminals if he could. He couldn't just be bought off and he wasn't the type to be intimidated, but at the same time he wasn't averse to stooping to dealing with Squall's mob. SeeD didn't work with Seifer, but sometimes a blind eye was turned to the gang's activities if it was to the Inspector's advantage. Their relationship was complicated and Squall didn't feel like dealing with it now.

"What's up?"

The trio turned round to see Irvine's group quickly approaching them, the cowboy shooting them curious glances while Selphie bounced along beside him. Behind them Rinoa looked at her feet, her eyes distant.

"Seifer's here," Squall responded, shifting his eyes from the girl to the tall man who raised his eyebrows and titled back his hat.

"What's he doin' 'ere?" the cowboy wondered, looking slightly baffled.

They turned to Nida who shrugged. "Won't say, will 'e?"

Of course he wouldn't. Shrugging the backpack from his shoulders, Squall threw the heavy object to Selphie.

"Put that in my room. Go 'round the back, so you won't be seen."

She grinned at him. "Scared Seifer will find out?"

He glared at her, but her grin never faded. "It's none of Seifer's business, he ain't SeeD. He finds out, then someone else will find out – and _that_ person might just have been the one who made that mess in the room. You feelin' lucky?"

She looked thoughtful. "Hmm, I think I'll pass."

She never sobered up, always keeping that bright attitude in place, but he knew she understood. He didn't think she'd stop being upbeat, not even if he shot her several times. She'd probably just leap up and say that she'd always wanted to see if you could get bullets out with a magnet. Didn't mean that she didn't take serious events to heart, though.

"Good. Then take that," he pointed to his bag, "to my room and that," he pointed to Rinoa, "to her room."

"You think we have to hide both?" Quistis cut in. "He'll just assume we have a new gang member, if he notices."

"I'm not a 'that'." Every head turned to Rinoa. She stared down at the ground, eyes far away but her voice was strangely present.

"Though' ya were gettin' rid o' her?" Nida muttered to Selphie, his expression mixed between confusion and curiosity.

"Change of plans," Selphie whispered back.

Squall ignored all of them, not admitting that Rinoa was right. He skirted around the issue by answering Quistis instead, jerking his thumb at their unwanted guest.

"You gonna be the one to explain her away to Seifer, then?"

The blonde gave him a 'good point' look before turning to the other girl, a small smile in place.

"I'm sorry, you're right. Just wasn't thinkin'."

Selphie looped arms with the darker haired girl, pulling her away from the others and towards the back of the warehouse. "Come on, Princess. Let's get ya ta bed, eh?"

Squall turned his head away from them. He couldn't deny that he felt sorry for the girl; she'd been through hell for years, only to get another shock that had torn her world apart _again_. He couldn't imagine what she had to be going through, but he tore his mind away from it as he began making his way toward the main entrance. It wasn't his problem; he had more important things to deal with, and he certainly wasn't going to play therapist for her.

He stepped inside the SeeD base, the others close behind him. The large threshold led them straight into the forward loading area, or what had once been a forward loading area. Now it was the main gathering area for the gang to talk, hang out, and drink. The latter was evident by the large number of empty bottles and cans lying around from the previous night. It was a large room, made more so by a few collapsed and demolished walls, which were scattered with cushions or blankets to make comfortable seats. Oil drums and fire-proof containers stood in strategic places around the room that would be lit at night to provide heat and light while their power batteries were too low to provide the building with electricity. Now, however, large windows allowed the sunlight to stream in and illuminate the room, clearly showing the graffitied walls, band posters, and mismatched furniture scattered around the rooms. Cushions, sofas, blankets, and tables had all obviously been found at random points in random places and brought here for the comfort of the occupants. It wasn't tidy by any means, but it was mostly clean and there was a pleasant lived-in feel that made it a home. It was normally a lively place when filled with people, but now the air was tense with barely suppressed aggression as the gang stood silently around the edges, their eyes trained to the heart of the room.

In the centre of the disorderly room three comfortable sofas had been pulled together, a low table standing between them. It was where Squall and his close friends would normally sit, but now Seifer was sprawled in the middle seat, leaning back with his feet on the table and his arms resting on the back, looking utterly at home and completely unaware of the tension. Behind him stood his two loyal sidekicks, Fujin and Raijin. None of the trio were in their uniforms, but that was nothing new; Squall didn't even think he'd ever seen Seifer in his police garb. Raijin stood with his arms crossed, waiting for something to happen and trying not to look put off by the current situation. Fujin cast a wary eye round the room, the distrust clear in her single blue orb as she scanned for danger. _Well, she'll find plenty of it,_ Squall thought sardonically.

He'd heard many stories about how she'd lost her left eye, but he only believed one such story to be the truth. As a policewoman on her beat, she had witnessed a gang up to no good – perhaps looting a shop, or beating up some kid. Who knew? She arrested the boys and, having caught them red-handed, managed to successfully press charges with Seifer's help. The only problem was that the gang the youths belonged to wasn't very happy about their friends being sent to the locker. The next week, as she entered her apartment, she was ambushed by their thugs. They held her down, kicking and screaming, as the leader took out a knife and carved out her left eye. She was just lucky that Seifer had appeared before they could move onto her other one, and that his time on the Force had left him sufficiently paranoid to go armed at all times. He had shot the three thugs in record time, before helping his friend to one of the suburb hospitals where the conditions were passable rather than vile slum ones. By the end of the week the rest of the gang was either in jail or dispersed across the slums, and Seifer's career and reputation were on the rise. Rumours were that the woman's strange speech patterns were a result of trauma from the event.

The tension in the room lessened slightly as Squall strode across the room, Seifer smirking up at him. "Squall! How ya doin', ole buddy?"

Nida slipped off to the edge while Quistis and Irvine followed on their leader's heels, coming to a stop by the table where Seifer rested his feet.

"I ain't your buddy," Squall drawled. "What are you doing here?"

"Cheery as ever, I see. I'm gonna have to improve that bedside manner of yours one of these days."

Irvine raised an eyebrow. "Plannin' on bein' in bed with him soon?"

The inspector smirked, indicating to Quistis with a jerk of his head. "I'd rather be in bed with her."

"And I'd rather fuck a dog," Quistis snarked back without hesitation, curling her lips into a smirk of her own.

A snigger swept through the room, and Seifer's expression twisted into an angry scowl. Squall did not join in the banter, however. As funny as it would be to watch Quistis run verbal circles round the blond man, he really wasn't in the mood for it today. This whole visit felt wrong, somehow, and it had him on edge. Seifer _never_ came here. If he wanted to see Squall, he always came to the club – at least there, it felt less like throwing himself into the lion's den. It didn't make sense for him to suddenly change his strategy, and although he would never admit it, Squall was worried.

"What do you want?" His question cut off any retort on Seifer's lips.

The inspector looked at him, his grin returning. "A talk."

Well, he didn't think the blonde Inspector had come to ask him out for coffee and a film. "About what?"

"Last night, a club used by a gang called the Sewer Rats was attacked and set on fire."

Squall was relieved when his friends didn't react. "So?"

"So, why'd you do it?"

"Why'd you think it was us?"

"That particular gang recently come into possession of some pretty fancy security tech," Seifer explained, "and it was wired all through their club. You lot don't like them much, and you're one of the only gangs I know of that could pull off a job that complex without getting caught."

"I'd be careful," Irvine murmured by his ear, "that's a compliment. He'll be askin' you to dinner next."

Quistis coughed over her laugh and Squall ignored the both of them. "You think it's us because someone got through the security? Sounds like you wanna be looking for mercs."

"Why would someone bother hiring mercenaries to take down a gang club? Gangs do their own dirty work."

"Why would I want to attack a club with a million cameras in it?"

Seifer's smirk grew, as if he'd actually managed to catch Squall out. "Who said anything about security cameras?"

Squall gave him a level look, biting his tongue against the blunter of the two comebacks that came to mind. "You said 'fancy security'," he quoted, speaking slowly, as though to a stupid child. "Cameras are basic. It's called common sense."

"Don't worry Seifer," Quistis added, "If you carry on accusing us for every crime you're landed with, you may get it right one day."

"INSPECTOR!" Fujin ground out over the chuckles circulating the room.

"That's right, it's _Inspector Almasy_ to you," the blonde retorted.

"Of course, Seifer," Quistis repeated sweetly. "Whatever you say."

"If that's all, then you can go waste someone else's time." Squall started to turn away from the policeman, but Seifer's voice stopped him in his tracks.

"I'm not going to arrest you for getting rid of a few delinquents, Squall. Not if you can give me something in return."

"Fine, but you've got nothing on me. I'd be out in an hour."

Perhaps it was due to the obvious truth behind that statement that Seifer ignored his comment, however infuriating it may have been. "I want to know what was 'round the back of the club."

Behind him he could sense Quistis stiffen, forcing him to answer quickly in the hopes they wouldn't notice her reaction. "Alleyway, I'd guess."

"I mean in the back rooms. We found two bodies in one, and someone had made sure we couldn't ID them. I want to know who they were and what they were hiding there."

"Sounding more and more like you're looking for mercs. I hear Ritch and his lot have been doing well, why don't you ask them?"

The blonde man watched his expression, trying to detect that hint of a lie that would give the game away. Squall met his gaze, not flinching as he reached inside, pushing down the nagging nerves, to maintain his annoyed mask. Either this was merely a good guess on Seifer's behalf (and it wouldn't be the first time; miracles happened, after all), or someone had tipped him off to the suspicious goings on in the back room of the club. There was no way that the other man could have detected anything from what they had left behind, especially not Rinoa's existence.

So why was he asking? Seifer wasn't the most subtle person in the world; he preferred a heads-on approach to things. Asking when he knew the answer wasn't like him, but then, if he didn't know about Rinoa, why was he even asking about what was back there in the first place? It couldn't be because of Dr. Odine, because he'd already stated that the bodies couldn't be identified. No, there was something else to this, but he was beginning to suspect that Seifer had been left in the dark as much as Squall had been with Caraway.

"Would you rather do this in an interrogation room?" Seifer asked smoothly.

Irvine burst out laughing. "Watch out, he's coming on strong. I think he jus' wants to get ya in some handcuffs."

Seifer glared at the cowboy, his irritation steadily growing. "Shut it Kinneas, or I'll drag you in as well."

"No thanks, man. I don't bend that way."

"Looks like we really are going to have to take you both in then."

Squall crossed his arms. "I'd like to see you try."

Fujin and Raijin shared a look and moved, but the moment they did every gang member present reached for their weapons. Squall couldn't resist the feeling of smug satisfaction when the officers were forced to stop in the face of twenty guns, their owners ready and willing to fire. And there were some mean-looking firearms there, too. Gang members had a tendency to customise their weapons, and SeeD were no exception to the rule.

"I wouldn't do that, if I was you," Seifer stated, looking utterly unconcerned.

There was something about the complacency in the Inspector's voice that made Squall's anxiety skyrocket. It wasn't hollow conceit, or false bravado; they were both far too recognisable to miss. No, Seifer had a trump card he had been holding back, something that would bring him out on top.

"I've gone up a bit in the world, you see," he continued as he reached into his coat and pulled out a thin black billfold, which he tossed to Squall. The gang leader caught it easily at arm's length, studying it curiously. It looked just like the billfold every other Inspector and Detective in the city used to house their police badges. Not understanding the point of all this, he flicked it open.

His stomach dropped at the sight of the object in his hands, and he couldn't help his eyes flying wide, his breath catching as his heart began to race. He didn't need to see the lettering stamped across the top; the crest that he knew all too well drew his eyes in and told him everything he needed to know. The blazing silver eight-point star was gone, along with the black circle with the Moon of Esthar in the centre. _Esthar Metropolitan Police_ was no longer scrawled around the edge in blue. The star in its place was golden; the Moon of Esthar was still present, but it sat over the centre of a gun crossed with the Estharian Crescent Scythe (the handle in the centre on the head and the blade on the outside; a weapon of war, not agriculture). The scroll that sat below the guns and star boasted the motto 'Strength through Justice' – a pretentious motto, in his humble opinion. It was the engraved banner at the top of the badge, however, that confirmed his fears. It was stamped with three simple words: _Military Investigation Unit_. Seifer had sold himself to the army, and by the looks of things, Fujin and Raijin had followed.

He heard Quistis' sharp intake of breath and Irvine's muttered curse over his shoulder, pulling him back to the present enough to set his mind straight.

"As you can see, shooting me would be a very bad ide –"

He was cut off when his badge landed in his lap.

"Get out." Squall's voice was clam and sure, with a firm edge that nobody missed.

"Not a smart move, Squally-boy," Seifer murmured. "Having ties to the military would be good for you and your sorry lot, you know. It's simple. You give me a hand, tell me what was back there and what you did with it, and I'll make sure –"

Squall rested his foot against Seifer's legs and roughly shoved them off the table, effectively ending Seifer's speech for the second time. "I said _get out._ We don't deal with dogs or sellouts."

"What was it you were sayin' about fucking a dog?" Irvine murmured to Quistis in an undertone. Despite the uneasy situation, there was no denying the grin on his face.

"Shut up, or I'll make sure you never fuck again," Quistis muttered back.

Seifer's eyes narrowed. Slowly placing his feet on the ground, he stood, glaring at the gang leader as they stood a foot apart, eye-to-eye. If the room was tense before, it was nothing compared to now. It seemed almost to take physical form, making the air was so thick that it felt difficult to breath. Squall was very, very aware of how no one else moved as the room seemed to hold its breath, waiting for the penny to drop, be it for better or worse. A wrong step, a little push too far, and there could be a backlash that would likely end them all. The only thing that calmed him, let him keep his cool so easily, was one simple piece of knowledge: there was absolutely nothing Seifer could do with his fancy new badge. Not yet, anyway, and definitely not with only two enforcers to back him up.

No one spoke, no one moved or lowered their weapons, but there was a definite change in the air. Seifer wasn't going to back down, not that easily, but then neither was Squall. The gang leader breathed evenly, trying to calm his heart and steel his nerves. Better to annoy Seifer a little, than be at the mercy of the military where the gang would be more of a liability than of use. Better to establish the new status quo _now_, before Seifer had any real power to make Squall sorry for shunning him.

"You're making a big mistake," Seifer stated, and Squall didn't have to concentrate to hear the threat in his voice. "We can do this nicely and you can get something out of this, or I can make life really hard for you."

"Go to Hell."

Seifer was silent, trying to stare Squall down. He had a sudden feeling that the Inspector was going to try and follow through on his threat and drag him into an interrogation room, only this time it wouldn't be in a police station. Squall returned Seifer's stare, blocking out the crowd around them, the focus helping him to sideline everything but his resolve. He wasn't going with Seifer, not to an army facility. He'd be damned if he was going to let them dig their claws into him, not after he'd been so careful about staying under their radar, and if he had to shoot Seifer to do it then so be it.

He wouldn't be the one to do the shooting, though; one of those twenty guns his men were currently aiming at the Inspector's head would do it for him. They were ready, just waiting for Seifer to make his move, and the man wouldn't disappoint. He breathed in, ready to speak and call the gang's bluff, before opening his mouth and –

The shrill screech of a mobile phone cut through the room, and the tension snapped like an old rubber band. A couple of the youths around the edge jumped from the unexpected noise, and the air lightened, that horrible heaviness evaporating as suddenly as it had formed. It was as if a noose had been relaxed around their necks, making the air easier to breath. Cursing silently, Seifer reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone.

"What!" he snapped, looking away from Squall. He was silent for a moment, before swearing violently. "Got it, fine. I'll be right there." He closed the phone and slipped it back into his pocket, before signalling his two enforcers. "We're moving out."

With a wave of his hand he indicated that Raijin and Fujin should leave, but the military dog didn't move to follow them. Instead he stepped towards Squall, speaking just loud enough for his adversary to catch his words.

"I'm a sellout?" he hissed. "I've got a once in a lifetime chance to get what I want, Squally-boy. So fuck you, and fuck what you think."

"They'll chew you up and spit you out again," Squall warned. "Trust me."

"We'll see about that, Leonhart. You may be happy to live in this fucked-up world, but I'm not and I _will_ do something about it." The man spun round and marched after his lackeys, leaving the gang to their lives.

"What did he say?" Quistis said as soon as the door closed. The last of the tension drained from the room and the occupants visibly relaxed, holstering their guns. Slowly, the ambient noise level returned to normal as the gang lit cigarettes and opened drinks, the previous encounter now merely another entertaining memory.

"He was just being Seifer," Squall replied vaguely.

"So Seifer's a dog, huh," Irvine mused. "Guy's a bastard, but I didn't see that coming."

"What now?" Quistis crossed her arms, looking to her leader.

"Nothing."

She raised an eyebrow. "Nothing?"

"I don't think he actually knows what he's looking for. He's just sniffing around for leads that he's not even sure exist. As long as we keep it business as usual, he won't know the difference. Just don't talk about Rinoa, or he might make a link." Speaking of the girl, he needed to decide what to do with her. He turned away; he really needed longer to think about this mess and sort it out in his mind.

"Maybe Almasy's right," a voice called from across the room, not quite confident in her words.

Squall didn't even bother turning as he replied, "I'm not whoring us out to the dogs."

"But bein' wit' the army might be sweet, though." He recognised the girl's voice now. Chantelle, she'd been with them maybe a year now. "'Member how the Black Kings lived?"

He cocked his head far enough to look at the brunette. "Remember how that _ended_?"

"Yea', bu' we 'ave you, don' we?"

There was a murmur of agreement from the crowd.

Squall turned around, his face stony as he looked around the room, several street-hardened youths ducking their heads to avoid his gaze. "We don't deal with the army or its dogs. We keep our business to ourselves." His voice dropped an octave, becoming genuinely frightening. "It will remain that way, too, we clear? Anyone who stabs me in the back will _wish_ the dogs had got them after I'm finished with them. No one mentions Rinoa, and _no one_ speaks to Almasy."

Having made his point deadly clear, he left everyone to stew over his words, heading to the corner stairs rather than the main ones. Let them think the implications of his words over and imagine what would happen if they crossed him. It would drive the temptation from their minds. At least, it had always done so in the past. No reason that should have changed recently.

He was halfway up the corner spiral staircase when Irvine and Quistis caught up with him, the woman speaking up as soon as she was close.

"Why d'you think Seifer sold himself out? What's the attraction in bein' a dog?"

"Who knows, or cares," Squall replied evenly, already tired of the discussion. "If he wants to be pissed on from above, that's his problem."

"Got in kinda quick though," Irvine commented. "Never seemed all that eager to join up before, and now he's on their payroll? Just straight in like that." He snapped his fingers. "Didn't even have to do basic training. Man, the regular troops must _hate_ him."

Quistis picked up his train of thought. "He's from these parts, too – slum dwellers never get promotions like that. _Never._ And Seifer's gotta be in pretty deep if he's carrying out actual military investigations on his own."

They were right. In no time at all Seifer had gone from an Inspector on the beat into the special military ranks and that was just … impossible. Especially for someone from _this_ neighbourhood. An inner city police officer? Sure, but not an officer from the slums.

With Seifer in the military, he was going to have to cut off all ties as soon as possible. It was only made worse by the fact that Seifer was obviously following Rinoa's trail, which meant that the military were interested in her. Evidently Odine's work was much more important than any of them had realised. How long could they stay out of sight?

* * *

After feedback saying one of my scenes in the last chapter was a bit flat, I've tried to improve on that this chapter…don't know if it worked though.

Quick thanks to InstigateInsanity, who beta this fic for me, he added some great lines to this (the "What was it you were sayin' about fucking a dog?" exchange between Irvine and Quisitis) and added a lot of tweaks to this and the other chapters.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

The Lady Hyne Hospital wasn't a bad place to work. Nor, indeed, was it a bad place to be admitted to. Of course, it couldn't contend with the city centre hospitals – the grandeur of the New Republic Hospital, the comfort of Memorial Hospital, or the technology of the University of Medicinal Sciences – but it was up to standards. In the event of official inspection (a service overdue by roughly five years, but no one was really keeping count), it would pass requirements and remain open with only a few black marks to its name. It was unremarkable for an outer suburb hospital, much like all the others; an old building that had stood long before the war and maintained enough that it wasn't falling down around the heads of those who worked there.

Yes, it could use a lick of paint, the radiators had a habit of going on the blink (which would need to be sorted before the harsh Estharan winter rolled around), the layout was less than ideal, and much of the equipment was painfully out of date, but no one could object to it. Not unless they were used to the pristine, cutting-edge, inner city facilities, and few such doctors tended to grace these walls. A week in the slums, however, was generally enough to silence them; after seeing conditions worse than field hospitals on the streets, most of those fools were willing to admit that maybe the Lady Hyne wasn't so bad after all. Although it was unsuitable for more specialised treatment, its facilities were more than capable of dealing with the day-to-day ailments of the residents.

Doctor Kadowaki swiped herself in through the staff entrance on the west side of the building. It was her monthly check-in, a day to hand in paper work, pick-up supplies, justify distribution of resources, and generally let her base hospital know that she was still alive and kicking. Not that they really needed to worry; she rarely had reason to feel threatened. Occasionally supplies were stolen, but the Kramer's Community Centre was a safe place to work and a damn sight safer than where many of her colleagues worked. All things considered, she was very lucky to be practicing at the Centre.

No, not lucky. The Kramers had specifically requested her because of her dedication and genuine desire to help those who came to her door. If someone arrived needing treatment, she would do her best to see that it happened, without taking extra payment or 'favours' like some of her fellow doctors were known to do.

It wasn't always possible to uphold such ideals, however. Esthar's health care system relied on a ludicrously out-of-date piece of legislation called the Graded Health Care System, or G.H.C.S., which was often difficult to circumvent. It was a despicable affair that remained from the wake of the Great War, when rationing had become a vital part of everyday life. Medicine, the one thing needed most in war, was no exception – it was a commodity, and was thus rationed like any other commodity.

G.H.C.S. had been designed to deal with the problems stemming from one simple question, a question that had bounced around Parliament Hall for years: namely, _how does one properly ration medical care?_ Ration it, and ensure a speedy recovery for the people of their once great nation?

Some genius had eventually come up with a solution: a chart that graded everyone according to their 'usefulness' to society. The top rank was Level Zero, reserved for the council members and the Old Money families who had restored the nation, deemed the most important and _relevant_ individuals in the nation. Level Five was the lowest, reserved for the permanently ('and without due cause') unemployed, who were therefore deemed a waste on society's resources. More often than not, this rank was synonymous with another name used for such folk: _slum dwellers_.

Children were not exempt from the system. Sure, one could hardly expect an infant to contribute to society in any meaningful way, but that hardly mattered. G.H.C.S. was a system that rewarded the fortunate; those unlucky enough to be born into a poor household, regardless of age or potential, were all but destined to remain there. If you were born into a level five household, you were level 5 as well, until you proved otherwise.

Thus the cycle of poverty continued, and all that the oh-so-wonderful G.H.C.S. accomplished was an ever-widening gap between the castes.

The elite, conversely, were given near-unlimited health cover. Doctor Kadowaki had once known an Old Money woman who had been granted heavily-discounted liposuction because she gained a stone on holiday. The official documentation stated that due to work commitments, the patient was required to maintain top physical condition. Healthy workers toil longer, after all. Furthermore, the paperwork said (even on paper, Kadowaki had mused bitterly, the words sounded oily), her family was generous, and had contributed millions towards rebuilding Esthar from the ruins of war.

Of _course_ she deserved to reap the rewards. It was her right, not her privilege.

The whole thing sickened Rachael Kadowaki, especially in light of the teenage boy who, a few months back, had sustained third degree burns from malicious bullies (he hadn't been able to afford more than an aspirin, and had died in agony several days later when the burns turned septic), or the young woman refused treatment for HIV (an 'occupational hazard,' apparently, of being a whore. Government money was not to be wasted on healing those in such a disreputable trade).

There was, however, little she could do in the greater scheme of things. It took all her time and

energy to find and exploit all the little cheats and loopholes needed in order to treat her own patients. It wasn't necessarily difficult, but it was tricky to avoid notice if it needed doing more than once or twice a month. Her time was better spent helping those she could, rather than shouting at the walls of bureaucracy and red tape that sealed them in.

Despite the blatantly unfair healthcare system, however, she remained both passionate and _honest_ about her work – honest enough to admit, reluctantly, that her monthly visits to the hospital served as a welcome break from the bleak streets of the outer city where she plied her trade.

She looked up at the sign-in desk and sighed resignedly. Much though she might have liked the hospital, it was just a shame that she couldn't stand some of her colleagues. Kadowaki's eyes settled on the figure before her. Though the man's back was turned to her, she'd recognise that thinning grey hair and wiry, brittle frame anywhere. She straightened her back, mentally stealing herself against the coming conversation and ignoring the way her stomach sank with dread.

The man glanced to the side as she placed her folder on the counter, smirking with recognition.

"Well, if it isn't Rachael Kadowaki. I haven't seen you for a few months."

"Doctor Churou," she replied in a curt, but polite voice. Repulsive he might be, but there was little to gain from spiting the man. Besides, she was not one for exchanges of hisses and petty insults. She'd seen too much stupidity and pointless violence as a result of such actions to let herself sink to the same depths.

"Still working full time in the slums?" he asked.

"More or less. I still have my old house calls. Where's Ava?" she enquired, trying to derail the conversation as she looked for the sign-in sheet.

"In the office, on the phone, probably talking to some thuggish boyfriend. As if it's not bad enough that we have to be surrounded by street rats in our practice, they've started to worm their way into our hospital administration as well. I don't envy you, though, being stuck out there almost every day of the week. I've had enough of the place after an hour. Two whole days out there would drive me crazy. Damn stupid idea if you ask me, making us suburban doctors split our hours with the outer city. We've had six muggings this month. I only just escaped one last week. It's abuse! Against health and safety, no less, not to mention all logic."

He shifted, finally allowing Kadowaki access to the register. Pulling it towards her, she replied in as calm a voice as she could muster – which, for a doctor who worked primarily with the poor and homeless, was very calm indeed. "I feel perfectly safe in the slums. I've never been threatened."

He eyed her suspiciously. "Taken to carrying a gun with you, or something?"

"No need," she replied in a matter of fact tone and a flourish of her pen. "I'm just well-liked."

The man huffed an irate 'I'm sure' before diving right back into his rant. "They should assign doctors to the slums on a permanent, full time basis. Make them stick to their own hospitals, the scum."

"You know as well as I do that few are willing to work out there, Kyle. We can barely get doctors there on a part-time basis." It was a problem which had led, partly, to their current system, dividing up the work between everyone.

"If they refuse, they should lose their certificate. It will make it easier on all of us."

"Are you volunteering, then?" Kadowaki asked, her eyes shifting to the office door. Where was Ava? The doctor was a patient woman by nature, but Kyle Churou was the figurehead of all she despised in the medical profession. What made the situation worse was that he seemed to believe that everyone thought the same way he did.

Churou snorted. "Hardly. I have tenure. Give it to some novice from the city. That'll knock some sense into them, and they can practice on people that don't matter."

She nearly scoffed at his open hypocrisy. The man himself had been transferred here from a central hospital ten years ago, in a whirlwind of complaints and paperwork that had made it obvious he was less than pleased about the move. Little had changed over the years; he was just as dour and unpleasant nowadays as he was in the early days of his new station.

Though the man heavily denied it, she suspected that his transferral was a punishment, or an effort to get him out of the way of those around him. Judging from his behaviour she could hazard a good guess as to what he'd done wrong.

"But surely," she reasoned calmly, hiding her mocking tone behind a façade of thoughtful debate, "with over a decade of experience in your profession, you would be at the top of the list for a permanent placement."

She struggled to keep her smug grin from breaking free at the sight of his expression, as it shifted from realisation to annoyance.

"Well," he huffed, swelling out his chest to cover his embarrassment at having to back-track. "Being in the slums for a couple of days isn't so bad. It does have certain … advantages," he conceded, his features twisting into a lecherous smirk. "As I'm sure you're aware."

She looked away from him, replacing the cap of her pen and returning it to its home instead. If she looked at him now she may say something that she may later regret.

"I'm not sure I understand your meaning, Doctor Churou."

Her voice was cold, despite her effort to keep it level.

He chuckled. "There's no need to be sly with me, Rachael. We all ask for little rewards when we go that extra mile for our patients, don't we? After all, we need _some_ incentive if we're going to stick our necks on the chopping block."

"That's both illegal and unethical." This time, however, her tone held nothing but resignation. An automatic response at hearing such an unapologetic boast.

"It's a mutually beneficial arrangement," Churou argued happily, gleefully aware of Kadowaki's disgust. "They get what they want and need, while I get free use of their services. How can I ignore a cry for help? I know you never do."

She could not help the indignation that crept into her voice, the mere thought of him painting her with the same brush as he repellent to her very core. "That's not what I do."

"Oh come on, I know you fiddle the system – we all do it – and I've seen some of the boys out there. I can see why they'd be to some people's taste, the 'bad boy' and all that, though I didn't quite have them down to _your_ tastes. I'm sure they pick up some interesting … _tricks,_ though. I know the girls do."

She took a deep breath, speaking in a slow voice with each word emphasised.

"I. Do. Not –"

Churou interrupted, not letting her finish, as he misinterpreted her tone as a hint rather than controlled anger.

"Of course, of course." He winked at her, and she wondered how such a simple action could seem so perverted. "I understand, mum's the word and subtlety is the name of the game. We can't just run around loudly announcing our actions. Well, can't stand around here all day. I have colleagues to meet for lunch. Enjoy your day in civilization."

She finally looked up at him as he retreated from sight. Her sudden relief was unbelievable as the door shut between them. The sad truth was that it was the man that repulsed her more than his actions now. Naturally, his actions were part of what made him such a disgusting person in her eyes, but sadly he wasn't an anomaly. He was one of a majority of doctors who did the same. Whether their vice was sex, drugs or both, there were too many men and women who would ask for 'favours' in exchange for arranging medical treatment that their patients couldn't afford. If you had nothing they wanted, then you were back on the streets. It was abuse, no matter how willing the victims were. When she cheated the system, she took nothing, and gave her patients everything.

"Is he gone?"

Kadowaki turned to the sound of the new voice. A strawberry blonde poked her head around the office door, loose curls falling to her jaw. Pale green eyes glanced around the room in search of the missing man.

The good doctor smiled at Ava. "He's gone."

The girl breathed a sigh of relief, stepping out of her haven. "I thought he'd never leave."

Rachael frowned down at her, passing across a copy of her documents for the month. "How long have you been in there?"

Ava nervously fiddled with her shirt as she glanced at the clock. "Ten minutes, I think. I know," she sighed, "I know I shouldn't hide from him, but he creeps me out. It was like he was one step away from grabbing me."

"You should report him."

The young woman behind the counter shrugged, brushing back a lock of hair and tucking it behind her ear self-consciously.

"Wouldn't do any good, it'd be his word against mine. Who's gonna listen to an ex-street rat over a doctor? Even one as gross as him?"

Kadowaki didn't answer. It was the simple, brutal truth, after all.

"I don't want to get you in trouble either," Ava continued. "It can't be good for you if I get into a mess after you manage to get me this job. I don't want to ruin your reputation or standing with your colleagues, don't want to lose my job either. So, it's better to just put up with it and stay quiet. It's not like I have to see him every day."

"You shouldn't have to put up with it at all. If it gets worse then tell me."

"Thanks, I will."

The doctor wasn't convinced that she would. She knew a losing argument when she heard one, however, and decided to change the subject. "Thank you. So, apart from unwelcome advances from doctors of questionable character, how are you doing?"

It was the right thing to say, evidently. The girl's face lit up like a Christmas tree. "It's been great. The other receptionists are really nice – well, there's one who's kinda not, but she just ignores me now. It helps that I've changed my speech to fit in more and that we aren't too far from the slums, so most of the other employees know we're not all thieves or druggies. The pay is decent and comes with Upper Level Four H.C., so I can't complain. Found a replacement for me at the Centre yet?"

"Not yet, it's proving to be harder than I expected. I've tried three different people so far. Either they're incompetent, don't know how to behave at work, or worse. I'm not exactly a disciplinarian, you know that, as long as it's within reason … but I can't tolerate gossiping to friends about confidential information, or stealing medicine. Be that as it may, though, I'll need to find _someone_ soon. It's too much work for Robin to do on her own, though she is grateful for the extra money."

"Don't worry, you'll find someone. There are hundreds of people like me who need and want a job."

Doctor Kadowaki picked up her papers. "I wish that was the only problem."

(&)

It was turning into a battle of him versus the briefcase and, unfortunately for Squall, he was losing.

Academically, he knew that these high-tech security cases were designed specifically to withstand forced entry. That didn't stop him from growling in impotent aggravation at the stupid thing as it sat innocently on his desk, half-inch thick titanium plating the only obstacle between him and SeeD's assured survival through the harsh Estharan winter.

The situation would have been hilarious if only the joke had not been on him. He was well aware of how absurd it was to be outsmarted by an inanimate object, and it frustrated him almost to the point of throwing the damned thing out the window. The only thing that stopped him doing exactly that was the threat of adding further insult to his already bruised ego. The case seemed to be almost literally invulnerable; he had no doubt that he could shoot the bloody thing and the worst of the damage would be, perhaps, a small dent on the metal surface. Besides, even if he threw it from his window and it did happen to land with enough force to open the case, the contents would be damaged as well, making the cargo (and all they had gone through to get it) worse than useless.

No, the only safe way to open this was with the correct thumb scan. The problem was that it wasn't his thumb that the lock recognised, and to cap matters off he wasn't sure exactly _whose_ thumb would open the lock. The most obvious option was Caraway, but Squall wasn't so sure. The ex-general was a smart man, if he wanted to stop them from getting into the case, then surely he would choose a less obvious print. One of his lackeys, maybe?

His hasty retreat from the blood-splattered room didn't seem so smart now. If only he'd cut off the men's thumbs before running. With what, though? His pocket knife wouldn't cut through bone, and even if it could, the task would have taken too long, making the chances of his possible capture in the chaos that followed too high to risk. Besides, all three bodies missing both their thumbs would definitely have caught someone's attention, and knowing his luck it would have been Seifer's.

Finally, he couldn't have opened the case back in the room because that would have meant running down the street with it open, which would have been sufficiently weird enough to have attracted even _more_ unwelcome attention.

Back at square one.

_Dammit._

The SeeD leader pinched the bridge of his nose, resting his elbows on his shins as he tried to think. How the hell was he supposed to open the stupid thing? Magic?

He snorted. If only.

It looked as if he would have to ask Quistis to open it after all. He didn't think the young electronics genius would be able to hack into the case lock, but maybe she knew a trick or two that might – just _might – _point him in the right direction. If she couldn't help them, then they'd have to pay someone to do it, an idea that sat very badly with him. For a start, he'd have to find someone who could _actually do_ the job, not just claim they could and make the situation worse. On top of that, he'd have to ensure that whoever it was was trustworthy. The only people Squall knew who definitely _could_ do this job would run off with the cargo as soon as they realised what it was, or sell him out to the first people who came knocking with a few gil in hand. With Seifer sniffing around and backed by the military, that was something he could not risk.

Seifer in the military … he would never have seen that one coming. Irvine's observation a few hours ago merely added to his worry. _Nobody_ joined the army and was just _given_ a high rank, it didn't work like that. So how had Seifer done it?

Unless he was bluffing, and was really just a low rank nobody.

That made even less sense, and he threw the notion away. No, Seifer wouldn't have signed up unless there was some serious power behind the offer. It was just the way he was wired.

_Why_ give up everything to turn switch for the Dogs? The man had never shown any interest in the Army before now – just the opposite, in fact. Squall was sure he remembered Seifer bad-mouthing the military at some point. It had always seemed as if the other man had chosen to be with the Pigs and that was where he wanted to be to achieve his goals, but then, maybe he had completely misunderstood and misjudged Almasy. He couldn't pretend to like Seifer, but he used to think that he understood the man. Now he wasn't so sure.

This realisation shouldn't have surprised him. To say that his relationship with Seifer was complicated was akin to comparing genocide to vandalism. Seifer saw him as a rival, a wild boy who needed to be taken off the streets. Squall saw Seifer as a pain in the arse with an over-inflated sense of self-worth. Almasy was a sucker for the melodrama of his work, it was what motivated him. He wanted to play hero to the city, the white knight that saved the day, and in this scenario Squall was the evil fiend that needed to be taken down.

Squall supposed that Seifer saw him as a rabid farm-dog that needed to be put down. Until he could find the right bullet to do so, however, why not let him kill a few farm rats? Despite the disease burning through its brain, the animal could still be useful to a certain degree.

So, despite Almasy's obvious loathing of Squall and his mob, the gang leader and police officer had come to an uneasy alliance of sorts. They had no written or spoken agreement, but when Squall and his gang disposed of a rival gang member that Seifer was unable to, the man became mysteriously busy with other matters and was unavailable to deal with 'petty crimes'. SeeD was the lesser of two evils and they both knew it. On the few occasions when Squall had gone out of his way to get rid of one of these 'problems', a small favour was returned in kind. It didn't mean that Seifer didn't want to put him away less than before, but he was aware on a primal level that should he actually _succeed_ in locking Squall away, someone bigger, meaner, and altogether nastier would take his place. It was the way things worked in the Slums.

That had all changed the instant Seifer had tossed Squall his new identification badge. If the pair met today, he somehow doubted that their … _understanding_ … of the last few years would hold up.

A random thought scrolled across his mind: out of everyone in the slums, Seifer was one of those he had known longest. He couldn't help a snort of slightly stupefied laughter at the thought.

_Enough,_ he scolded himself. _I'll just give myself a headache if I keep thinking like this. _

The briefcase was priority one. Once he'd cracked the damn thing, _then _he could start contemplating the true meaning behind Seifer's baffling career change.

That was, if he could bring himself to care enough

(&)

Inspector Almasy pushed his way through the crowd rubber-necking the end of the alleyway, ignoring the uniformed officer who stood blocking the entrance. The officer eyed him uncomfortably when Seifer broke away from the throng, his eyes catching the badge that was flashed at him. Somewhat reluctantly, he let the man duck under the yellow tape with his colleagues. Quickly striding down the passage, Seifer arrived at the edge of the hubbub on the other side. He ignored the glares and looks from the police as he quickly and efficiently took in the scene, before leading his team to the rusty steel death-trap disguised as a set of stairs.

His foot had barely touched the first step when Fujin shouted, "DANGEROUS!"

"No choice, sergeant."

_No shit,_ he added mentally.

"CAREFUL!"

Seifer smirked as he continued on his way. His sergeant made it sound as if he was planning on swinging around on the frame, or that the metal would crumble in the breeze. It creaked and squealed ominously under his feet, sure, but he'd been on worse. Hell, he'd chased criminals across rooftops before and that was a longer, more dangerous drop than the second storey of an old building. Many of those roofs, too, had been in worse condition than these stairs.

The minute he reached the top and stepped into the room, a woman's voice sneered at him.

"I thought I heard your sidekick's idiotic bellow. What the hell are you doing here, Almasy? You're not with the Force anymore, you have no reason to be here. Or are the military dogs sick of you as well?"

"Chill the fuck out Allen," he replied, "I'm not here to steal your case."

"Then why are you here? This is police business."

"One of the bodies is General Caraway."

"Ex-General," Allen corrected.

"He still served a high rank in the Armed Forces, Allen. For two tours, in fact – which makes this military business. I've got better things to do, though, so I'll just take a look around and pick up your report at the end."

"A few days with the Dogs and you're already too good for honest police work. Well, come on, then. The sooner you see it, the sooner you fuck off." The detective was still distinctly unfriendly, but seemed satisfied that the case was safely hers. Turning, she led them to the inner room, not bothering to make sure they followed her.

Seifer looked round the room, the repulsive smell assaulting his nose as he looked down at the carnage that surrounded him. The objects littering the floor were covered in blood, seeping through sheets of spilled paper. Whoever had done this must have been looking for something and had done so during or just after dispatching of the room's occupants, probably torturing Caraway and his companions for the information. Either that or someone had stumbled upon them just after the killers had left and decided to rifle through the corpses' possessions, which although unlikely (most common thugs would have fled the moment they saw the blood, rather than stick around to rifle a few pockets), was not impossible.

"When were they discovered?" he asked, without looking round.

"A little over two hours ago," Allen answered, standing just inside the door.

"It's definitely Caraway?"

The women sneered at him. "We're not entirely useless, you know. IDing a body is not beyond our capabilities."

"Not much of him left to ID, is there? That's impressive police work, Allen."

"There's enough to be certain it was Caraway, but we'll know for certain after the post-mortem."

He smirked at Allen's slip-up. Even the best forensics team in the world wouldn't have been able to positively ID the fleshy ruins in this room in two hours. It took two hours to get a positive fingerprint match, for God's sake. Longer for dental, and weeks to months for DNA.

He glanced up at her. "You were tipped off, weren't you." It was a statement rather than a question.

The detective stiffened at his comment, her jaw clenching to reign in her anger at being caught out. "Orders from higher up asked that we confirm whether or not it was Caraway as soon as possible. We were provided with his personal details when we left the station."

Seifer turned back to Caraway's body. Donning a sterile latex glove, he crouched down and turned the wrist until the pale underside faced him, taking in the small scar on the forearm before standing abruptly.

"Right, I'll come to the station and pick up the report when you're finished."

"That's it?" There was a little indignation in the female detective's voice at the hasty dismissal of the case.

"I told you, I've got better things to do."

Not bothering to acknowledge his former colleague, he swept out of the room, leaving behind the bristling Detective Inspector Allen.

"CARAWAY?" Fujin asked, as he stepped from the stairs to solid ground once more.

"It matches," he answered, nodding.

"SeeD?"

"As much as I'd love it to be, they're not _that_ violent," he admitted, "and they'd at least try to get rid of the bodies. Squall's neither stupid nor cocky … well, not _that_ cocky. Barring a full-on gangland rumble, they're pretty damn good about covering their tracks."

"Maybe this means they weren't behind the shoot-out at the club, then," Raijin put in as they re-entered the alley.

Seifer snorted. "Like hell. That was them, I know it. I've been chasing them long enough to know when they're behind something. Besides, what did I just say about rumbles? If _that_ little fiasco wasn't a street war than please, show me one."

They didn't give the policeman who stood guard a second glance as they passed him, pushing their way back through the crowd. They were nearly at the car, away from curious ears, when Fujin spoke her mind.

"BLINDED!"

He turned his glare away from the youths hanging around a little too closely to his vehicle for comfort. "What do you mean?" he asked dangerously.

"She's right, ya know," Raijin agreed, though he seemed to be a little nervous at doing so. He didn't quite have the guts that Fujin did when it came to speaking his mind to his superior. "You sure you don't just _want_ it to be them, boss? We don't want you to mess this up coz you wanna pin something on Squall."

"You saying I'm obsessed with him?" Seifer challenged as he opened his car door.

"Maybe a little. She just wants you to look at other leads as well."

"I'm not fuckin' stupid. I won't let SeeD blindside me." He ducked down into the driver seat, effectively ending the conversation.

Slamming the car door shut, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his mobile. He scrolled down the address list, ignoring his friends as they entered the car. Finding the right number, he hit the dial button and waited. The phone only rang twice before it was picked up.

"_This better be important. I have a meeting in ten minutes."_

"The body is Caraway."

"_Which body?"_

Seifer frowned. This was an unexpected. "I got a call from one of your informants telling me that a body had been identified this afternoon. It's professional work, made to look like a gang, but it was definitely hired hands that did it – the bodies were too messed up, all possible ways of quickly identifying them destroyed. No idiot gangbanger's gonna go to that much trouble. They must have been looking for the same thing we are, and they got carried away. The police had orders from higher-up to confirm if it was Caraway. I assumed you were the one who issued those orders".

"_It wasn't me, but I know who it was. Stupid woman, I wanted him alive."_

Despite the obvious ire in the man's voice, he seemed remarkably calm, more annoyed at the person responsible rather than the turn of events. Although, Seifer supposed, he would _have_ to have a level head to reach the top of his game and stay there for so long. _"I'll talk to them and ensure that this _misunderstanding_ doesn't happen again. Don't get side-tracked with this though, Almasy. I want you on task."_

Without a second's warning the line went dead.

"Dick," Seifer muttered under his breath.

"Well?" Raijin prodded from the front seat.

"Said he'd sort it out."

He threw the phone down onto the dashboard, still fuming at the abrupt manner in which he'd been brushed aside.

"NOW?"

Seifer smirked, looking in the rear-view mirror at his partner. "I think the Sewer Rats might be willing to confirm what they were hiding away in the back of the club. With the right incentive, of course."

* * *

I am so, so sorry for the long wait. I fail on so many levels, but I hope the length goes some ways to making up for that. I'd say that now I've only got the epilogue of FoM left to do, that the updates will be quicker, unfortunately I've been dragged into the Sherlock fandom (which is amazing and you have to watch it if you haven't already) and so I've been caught up in writing for that and a Doctor Who crossover. But I will try to get the next chapter up a hell of a lot quicker.

Oh, and before I forget, the G.H.C.S. is based on a system from an episode of _Star Trek Voyager_ which I shamelessly borrowed for this fic.

_(Ed: Although j-merc just took the blame for the long wait, it's my fault more than anything. I've been busy as hell and beta-ing went straight out the window a month or three back, which is blatantly inexcusable. My apologies both to the author and to you, the readers, for the horrible wait. _

_- InstigateInsanity)_


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